My Body Betrays Me
by EmilianaDarling
Summary: Ella Enchanted-inspired AU. Kurt is magically compelled to follow orders. His roommate at Dalton, Dave Karofsky, takes advantage. Blaine just wants to make everything all right again.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Seriously, you guys. I suck at ff dot net so hard; I update far, far more frequently on my livejournal. But thank you very much for coming along for the ride anyways! Inspired by a prompt on the kinkmeme, which can be found here: .?thread=16317457#t16317457 :)

Warnings: This fic is not a happy one at all. Includes non-con, dub-con, self-delusion, and awful situations.

* * *

><p>By the time Dave finishes off the last body paragraph of his essay, the small white numbers in the bottom corner of his screen inform him that it is well past midnight.<p>

Dave blinks, hard, and reaches up a hand to massage the bridge of his nose. After several hours spent staring at the dim glow of his laptop screen, his eyes feel heavy and sore. His whole body aches slightly, as well, from being scrunched up into his desk chair for so many hours. Already having loosened his tie and draped his blazer over the back of his chair, Dave rolls up the sleeves of his long white button-up. He glances at the clock again and frowns, turning to survey the emptiness of the room behind him.

Other than the brightness of the laptop screen, the glow of his desk lamp is the room's only source of light. Its dimness leaves the small but comfortable dorm edged in shadow, but everything is still visible. His own solid desk. Another desk across the room, identical but for its tidiness. The two twin beds, both draped in maroon sheets and edged by handsome bed frames in a dark wood. Dave's bed is made but messy, the top corner of blankets tossed back in preparation for sleep. The other bed has been made with extreme attention to detail; ever sheet corner and edge tucked carefully beneath the mattress.

Dave lets out a sigh and turns back to his paper, mentally preparing himself to tackle its concluding paragraph. Having an essay due tomorrow afternoon is stressful, of course, and Literature has never been his favourite subject. Simultaneously, however, it feels... nice. Exciting, almost, to be able to work hard at school without having to fake apathy.

At his old high school, trying to do well in any class had practically been social suicide. Dave had been forced into an intense balancing act to maintain his average for his parents without letting on to his friends that he gave a shit. Since transferring to Dalton, however, doing well was _encouraged_. Hell, almost all of the popular guys in school performed well academically – and most even participated in after-hours clubs. It was absurdly liberating.

As much as Dave had been against transferring initially, in the end it _had_ been the right decision. He can show off his intelligence and not be shamed, which is incredible. But also... also, no one knows about _that _here. Dave is aware, intellectually, that no one at Dalton would hate him for being the way he is. Regardless, having the option of not letting anyone know is even better.

Plus, there is Kurt.

Something complicated and dark twists in the bottom of Dave's stomach, but he pushes the feeling down. Because he has Kurt, and that's all that matters. The fact that he can hold Kurt close, and kiss him on the lips, and make him feel good... _that _is so much more important than anything else.

And Dave knows, deep down, that Kurt loves him too.

Comforted, he begins to work on revising his conclusion. He is in the process of attempting to determine the best way to rephrase his thesis statement for the umpteenth time when the door to their dorm creaks ever-so-slowly open. Dave looks up just in time to see Kurt standing in the doorframe, frozen in place with his eyes wide open. He looks very much like a deer caught in the headlights.

"You're still up," Kurt says, voice stilted, and _God_ is he ever gorgeous. All delicate bones and ramrod-straight posture, and the blazer sleeve on his outstretched arm is pulled up just enough to reveal one of his delicate wrists. The skin there is pale against the navy fabric. His hair understated but classy, and his eyes so blue it practically _hurts_.

"_Lord of the Flies_ paper is due for Lit by tomorrow afternoon," says Dave by way of explanation. That particular blazer is too big on Kurt, and the way it hangs over the other boy's small frame makes affection swell up strong in Dave's chest. "I was wondering where you were; curfew was ages ago." Dave smiles warmly. "Now... close the door and come here."

Kurt stiffens, freezing in place and gripping the doorknob so hard that his hand shakes. This happens, sometimes, and Dave knows well enough to wait it out. He isn't even able to count to five in his head before Kurt lets go, and within the space of a few seconds the dorm room door is closed and Kurt is standing right in front of him, close enough to touch.

And Dave isn't going to ignore an invitation like that. He reaches out a strong arm and wraps it around Kurt's waist, tugging Kurt gently onto his lap. The wheeled chair squeaks softly under the added weight, and Dave wraps his arms around Kurt's small waist and buries his nose in Kurt's hair. It smells like product, and expensive shampoo, and underlying it all the smell of _Kurt_. It makes Dave shiver.

"Hey, babe," whispers Dave, squeezing the smaller boy around the middle. Annoyingly, Kurt is rigid and stiff in his arms. "Relax," Dave adds, and the tension leaves Kurt's body at once. The sensation of the slender body relaxing into Dave's hold is so good that all Dave can do for a moment is close his eyes and _breathe_.

Kurt feels so delicate, so _defenceless_ like this.

_So mine. _

After taking a few moments to recover, Dave leans forward and presses a kiss to Kurt's pale neck. "How was your day?"

"Mmm," responds Kurt noncommittally, in a small voice. Dave nips Kurt's neck gently in chastisement, and Kurt sighs and continues. "It was okay. History wasn't too bad, and French was actually kinda fun. I have two midterms next week, though, so that's not exciting."

"Which classes?"

"French and Chemistry."

"Mmm." Dave leans in and presses a kiss to the place where Kurt's jaw meets his neck, and Kurt shivers in his arms. Encouraged, Dave continues to kiss along the pale skin of Kurt's neck, his jaw, the shell of his ear. "You'll do great, babe. You're practically fluent in French anyways." Unconsciously, he begins to rub Kurt's flat stomach; the thick material of the Dalton blazer is rough under his hand. "So smart, Kurt. So beautiful."

"Dave..."

Dave can feel Kurt beginning to tense in his arms. All at once, he wants to see Kurt's face more than anything in the world. He presses one last kiss to Kurt's throat.

"Turn around," instructs Dave, voice full of warmth, and Kurt hesitates for a long moment before twisting around on top of him, moving so that he is facing Dave while straddling his lap. Dave can feel Kurt's breath just barely tickling his nose, they're so close together.

This new position also affords Dave a great view of Kurt's face, which is... exquisite. Soft, full lips and a completely adorable nose. Eyebrows immaculately shaped, and those _eyes_. Strikingly blue and stunning, framed by thick dark lashes. Everything about Kurt's face is perfect.

Except for his expression. His beautiful face is pulled into a look that Dave doesn't like to see. It's... tired. Wary. And if Dave looks hard enough, and for long enough, he can even see the _resignation_ there. He doesn't want to see that, _hates _seeing Kurt look at him that way. So Dave pulls Kurt down and kisses him on the mouth.

The kiss sends heat straight to Dave's cock, even if Kurt's lips stay unmoving and hard beneath his own at first.

"Kiss me back," murmurs Dave against Kurt's lips, and suddenly Kurt is _right there_. Dave lets out a groan as Kurt opens his mouth to him, letting Dave's tongue push into the warm sweetness of his mouth. Kurt lets out a small, breathy noise as their mouths move together. Dave's hands spread wide in the small of Kurt's back, keeping him close. Kurt's thigh brushes Dave's erection, hot and hard in his pants, and the tiny hint of sensation makes Dave inhale sharply and hold him tighter.

When Dave finally lets Kurt pull away, the smaller boy is breathing heavily and there is a faint flush growing in his cheeks. His eyebrows are pulled together in a worried expression.

"Dave –" Kurt tries again, but Dave gets there first.

"Tell me where you were."

The words leave Kurt's mouth before he can even attempt to contain them:

"I was studying with Jeff for our French midterm in his room," says Kurt, before clamping his lips together and looking upset with himself. Dave raises an eyebrow.

"You that worried about French?" He's trying to keep his voice even. Of course Kurt can study with whomever he likes. Of course he can.

Except... knowing his boyfriend's spent the evening alone with a boy Dave knows to be fairly handsome and terribly charismatic makes Dave feel... anxious. Self-conscious. Vaguely upset, even.

"It's not that," Kurt rushes, eyes blown wide, and Dave pulls him into another kiss. This time, though, Kurt responds without having to be told. He presses himself right up close to Dave's body, long arms wrapping around Dave's neck as he kisses Dave enthusiastically. Lets Dave bite down softly on his bottom lip, lets Dave slide his hands down and rest cup Kurt's pert ass.

It is times like this where Dave knows – truly and completely – that Kurt loves him. He does. He must. He just has to be reminded every once and a while, and Dave can live with that.

Kurt presses one last kiss against Dave's lips, warm and soft, and pulls away.

"It's not that," Kurt says again, and his words are tentative. Careful. "It's just... Dave, we spend a lot of time together. And... it's nice. Being able to study with a friend."

And that, of course, makes Dave's frustration crumble. Because he knows that Kurt hadn't had any friends at all at his last school, had faced off threats and violence and abuse from his peers every single day just for being who he was. He hadn't been able to hide, like Dave had, behind sports and bravado and bluster. And of course he enjoyed being in a place where people loved him, and cherished him, and wanted to spend time with him.

"C'mere," murmurs Dave, before getting a firm grip on Kurt's waist and standing up without any other warning. Kurt gasps, wrapping his legs around Dave's middle and clinging to him as Dave walks them across the room to his already messy bed. Kurt barely weighs anything at all, really, and it's easy enough. Dave is already lying Kurt down on his bed before he realizes that Kurt is speaking.

"Dave. Dave, just... it's late. I'm pretty tired."

Dave leans forward and kisses Kurt on the forehead. "We won't take long, babe, I promise." Kurt's a wonderful student, but he does need to learn to lighten up a little bit. Staying up another half hour won't make a huge difference in class tomorrow, at this point.

"And... don't you have a paper due tomorrow?" Kurt pushes himself into a sitting position against the pillows, looking anxious.

Warmth blossoms in Dave's chest as Kurt's concern. "It's almost done, don't worry. I can finish up the last little bit and print it in the morning." He leans forward and brushes his thumb against the soft skin of Kurt's cheek. "Now, stop worrying and get naked."

Kurt goes rigid on the bed, and Dave stands up to begin removing his own clothes. Dave is only half-way through unbuttoning his own shirt, though, when Kurt gives in. Long, delicate fingers reach down and begin to remove the formal Dalton blazer – and Dave's own hands still, completely hypnotized by the sight of watching Kurt undress.

No matter how many times Dave sees this, it's always like watching a present just for him get slowly unwrapped. Kurt strips off his blazer, loosens the tie and slides it up over his head. When Kurt begins to unbutton his own white button-up, Dave can't help but let out a small desperate noise of pleasure as more and more of Kurt's pale chest comes into view. And when that, too, falls aside... the tightness between Dave's legs grows almost unbearable.

Having so much of that pale skin on display is intoxicating, and so too is the way Kurt's chest tapers into that tiny waist. He's so delicate; all small and thin and shoulders so very defined, and the soft pink of his nipples stands out sharply against the unbelievable paleness of his skin. Kurt doesn't look him in the eye when, naked from the waist up, he reaches down and unbuttons the fly of his slacks. The drag of Kurt's zipper is almost obscene in the silence. And then, still looking away, Kurt raises his hips in the air and begins to slide his pants off.

"_Fuck, _" hisses Dave, frantically starting to claw at his own clothes again as he watches Kurt pull of the pants, his socks, his underwear. Until they are both naked in front of one another in the quiet room.

And then Dave cannot hold himself back anymore. Cannot stop himself from clambering onto the bed with Kurt, from getting into a sitting position and pulling the smaller boy on top of him. Dave digs a hand into Kurt's hair and drags him close, kissing him hard and deep.

"You're so hot, Kurt," Dave says in between kisses. "God, you're so perfect."

He reaches down and grips Kurt's ass, rolling his hips up – but when their cocks rub together, Dave realizes that Kurt is only half-hard.

Dave wants to make Kurt feel good. Wants to make this gorgeous boy tremble and gasp with pleasure under his hands. To lose control, to not hold back anymore. He wants Kurt to let Dave do whatever he likes to him, to make Kurt take it and take it until he can't _stand_ it.

"It's okay," murmurs Dave, stroking a comforting hand through Kurt's hair. "It's okay, babe. Don't hold back; just enjoy." He leans forward and kisses Kurt just in time to capture the whimper that escapes his lips, and when he rolls his hips up again he finds Kurt hard and wanting.

The slide of their erections against each other – Dave's large and thick, Kurt's slender and rosy – feels incredible, and Dave groans at the sensation. The grind together, and Dave can't help but notice how Kurt rubs back against him, how he whines for more. After a while, Dave reaches up and takes Kurt's cock in hand.

"Ah!" Kurt cries out, hands flying up to cover his face. As though it's too much for Dave to see him like this, crazed with pleasure and desperate to be touched. Dave continues to stroke, Kurt's cock warm and hard in his hand.

"Let me see you, Kurt," says Dave, brushing his thumb over the tip. Kurt gasps, but lowers his shaking hands obediently to rest on Dave's shoulders. The obstruction gone, Dave can just look into Kurt's face and _enjoy_. Because Kurt feels everything so strongly, reacts to every touch and stroke and squeeze, and his beautifully expressive face displays every glorious second of it.

_It's unreal, how beautiful he is. _

Sweat is beginning to bead along Kurt's forehead, his face screwed up in pleasure and his hips rocking into every stroke from Dave's hand. Thinking he might come just from watching Kurt if he isn't careful, Dave reaches over with his other hand, grabbing and uncapping the bottle of lube sitting on top of the bedside table. Kurt whimpers when Dave lets go of his cock in order to spread the lube over his fingers, but the hand on Kurt's cock is soon back again. And Dave's other hand, fingers slicked with lube, reaches down between them.

Kurt groans when one of Dave's slippery fingers begins to rub around his hole, writhing as Dave circles the sensitive skin. Several times, Dave begins to push in— just the tip of a finger – before sliding out again to touch and tease around the outside. Kurt gasps, but doesn't push down; ever little jerk of his body pushes his cock up and down in Dave's grip. After a few minutes, Kurt throws his head back and whines at the unsatisfactory touch; Dave chuckles, and pushes his index finger fully inside.

"You like that, don't you?" Dave asks. Kurt's breath is coming sharp and ragged, and his body is incredibly hot and tight around Dave's finger. He begins to slide the finger out in a slow, determined rhythm. Kurt cries out in pleasure, and it's _so_ worth the discomfort of this angle if it gets Kurt to make that _face_.

After a few minutes Dave adds another finger, and the _sound _Kurt makes in response is so hot – high and clear and desperate to be fucked – that Dave knows he could get off on that single noise alone. Dave growls, pumping the two fingers _hard _into Kurt's body, holding the smaller boy close as he cries out and gasps at the harsh touch.

If Dave were feeling more patient, he would add another finger; let Kurt adjust more first. But he's so hard it hurts, and Kurt's mouth is opened wide with pleasure as Dave fucks him with his fingers. And somewhere inside of himself, Dave is still angry about Jeff. Stupid Jeff, who is a strong singer and a track and field hero and does well in every class. Who is slender and pretty; not rough and big like he is. Who Dave can practically imagine holding Kurt close, and kissing him, and making him come.

Instead, Dave yanks his fingers out of Kurt's ass hard and fast. Kurt wails at the emptiness, at the lack of touch – but Dave kisses him hard, giving his cock one last stroke before reaching for the lube once more. It only takes a few moments before Dave's cock is slippery, drenched with lube and precome and twitching to be buried inside Kurt's tight ass.

"Ride my cock, baby," says Dave, in a voice far more confident than he feels. Kurt lets out a choked sound before biting his lip, positioning himself – and beginning to slide ever-so-slowly down onto Dave's cock. He cannot stop himself from letting out a choked moan as that _tightness _swallows up the tip, so hot and slick and _incredible_ that Dave's hands fist in the sheets.

In terms of size, Dave knows that he has a large cock; long and thick and heavy. So the sensation of Kurt pushing himself down onto it inch by inch, filling himself up until he's taken everything inside, makes Dave feel something guttural and possessive twinge deep inside. The feeling of Kurt stretched tight around his cock is so good, Dave can't imagine anything better.

Until Kurt begins to move.

"_Fuck, _" Dave hisses, head falling back against the headboard as Kurt begins to ride his cock in earnest. The _slide _of it is incredible, Kurt's ass gripping his cock so perfectly it makes him see stars. Slick and hot, up and down, this beautiful boy fucking himself on Dave's cock.

"No one else can do this for you," mutters Dave, reaching down between them to stroke Kurt's cock. Kurt lets out a choked noise, increasing his speed. "No one else can fill you up like I do, Kurt. No one else can have you."

A tear slides down Kurt's cheek, out of place in the moment, and Dave leans forward to kiss it away. Kurt's getting close, Dave can tell; his chest is flushed, and his legs are beginning to tremble. Dave grips Kurt's hip with one hand and his cock with the other, slamming up into Kurt's body as he simultaneously jerks his hand rough and hard over Kurt's cock. Kurt lets out a broken noise, gasps – and _keens_, high and beautiful, as he comes in stripes over Dave's stomach. Dave fucks him through it, Kurt's body clenching and spasming around his cock in the most perfect way imaginable.

It doesn't take Dave too long, after that. He grabs Kurt's hips in both hands and slams up into his body, hard and fast and desperate until he's coming too. Hips stuttering up as he comes deeps inside Kurt's ass, coating his insides with slickness and _claiming_ him, for now, and forever, and always.

Dave comes back to himself a few moments later, panting and twitching and gripping Kurt's hips so hard there will almost certainly be bruises tomorrow. Sweat is pouring down his back, which makes him feel weirdly self-conscious. But Kurt – beautiful, delicate Kurt – is clinging to him sweetly, face buried in Dave's neck. He allows himself to ride out the very last of the aftershocks, still breathing heavily – and after a few moments, he presses a kiss to Kurt's throat. Kurt takes the cue, moving so that Dave's cock slides out. They both inhale sharply at that, and in an instant Kurt is curled into his side with his face buried in Dave's chest.

"Okay, babe," laughs Dave, wrapping his arm around Kurt's shoulders. He's still out of breath, body still buzzing with his orgasm. "We'll cuddle for a minute, then get cleaned up and go to bed. Okay?"

Kurt nods into his chest, still not looking up, and Dave squeezes him tight. But looking down and seeing Kurt like that – tiny, and tucked up into him, and holding on tight – makes him remember something. Because Kurt needs to be protected. What he's about to do isn't selfish at all; it's just a precautionary measure to keep Kurt safe.

"Don't hang out with Jeff more than a few hours a week," says Dave. "And... tell me if he starts to flirt with you or anything."

Against him, Kurt becomes so rigid that he is practically vibrating with the effort of remaining still. Dave holds him close, and waits. It's practically a full minute before Kurt's body relaxes again, loose and defeated.

"Okay," whispers Kurt, in a voice that is so much more broken than Dave wants to hear. He pretends that he can't feel the wetness on his chest, and lets the two of them stay curled up together on the bed for another ten minutes so that Kurt will be dry-eyed when they stand up to prepare for bed.

* * *

><p>Dave had first found out about Kurt's... <em>unusual affliction <em>two months after he transferred to Dalton. Two months after he moved into the two-person dorm room and found Kurt's things already sprawled over the entire room; posters of _Vogue _covers and pop stars Dave couldn't name spread across the walls like some sort of virulent plague.

He and his father had knocked on the door, then waited a few moments for a response before unlocking it with the key they'd received from administration and pushing their way inside. Dave hefted a suitcase full of clothes, while Paul hauled his son's backpack full of new textbooks over one shoulder. Laden down with pieces of Dave's life, packed up and folded into transportable portions, they not been met with an empty room.

Instead, there was a slender boy draped out over one of the twin beds. His head of brown hair rested at the bed's foot, and his feet were propped up on the headboard. The unnamed boy was moving, too. Head rocking back and forth, and after a moment Dave realized he was plugged into an iPod. The tinny beat of the music was just barely audible from the door.

"Um. Hello, there," Paul had said, clearing his throat awkwardly – to which the slender boy had gasped, flailed a bit, and grasped at his chest as he spun around to face the door.

"Oh my _God_," he spluttered, eyes blown wide – and Dave couldn't help himself. The sight was so comical, so unexpected – and such a _contrast _to the rigid formality of this new, intimidating place – that Dave started to laugh. Big, gut-wrenching chuckles bubbling up inside of him until he couldn't hold them in; until they overflowed and rang into the air, leaving him breathless and gasping and slumping against the edge of the door.

Both the nameless boy and Dave's father stared in silence. It probably should have been more awkward, if it weren't so _funny_. Dave choked as he continued to shake in silent mirth, stomach beginning to grow sore from the strain.

"... you must be Dave's roommate. It's so nice to meet you: I'm Paul Karofsky, Dave's father."

Apparently, his father's response to this belated mental breakdown was going to be utter civility. Dave burst into another round of helpless laughter, tears starting to run down his face.

"Kurt Hummel. It's nice to meet you, too."

And _that_ put a stop to Dave's laughter. Because that voice... it wasn't that it was high, or light, or beautiful, although it was all of those things as well. Kurt's voice was steeped in bitter acceptance, in embarrassment and extreme discomfort. In that one sentence, Dave could tell that Kurt was mentally resigning himself to spend the rest of the school year living in the same room as someone who considered him a joke.

"Dude," Dave choked out, pushing himself up from the wall. His dad was looking at him as though he had gone slightly mad. "Dude, I'm sorry. It's just been the most unbelievably shitty week, you have no idea." He stepped forward and extended his hand. "I'm Dave."

There was a pause, and then –

"I'm Kurt." They shook, Kurt's small hand fitting nicely into Dave's larger palm. The size difference would have been funny, except that it... wasn't. It made a little shiver of something Dave couldn't identify run through him. "I'm new here, too. I just transferred here two days ago; I suppose they wanted all of the new kids to arrive for the new quarter."

And Dave couldn't help but stare. Now that he wasn't gaping like a fish... fuck, Kurt was _pretty_. Like, full-on china doll kinda pretty. Kurt looked up into his face and smiled and his _eyes_. Searing blue, and unbelievably gorgeous. Dave broke off the handshake before he could do something crazy embarrassing like keep shaking it forever.

_Stop that, _ Dave mentally chastised himself. _This is what got you so much shit in the first place. _

Suddenly Kurt flushed bright red, the colour a pleasant contrast to the paleness of his skin.

"Oh, good lord. I'm sorry about all the posters; I'll try to keep them limited to the area around my desk or something. Or take them down. They just didn't tell me exactly which day you'd be coming, and posters aren't even my style, really. But it was a dorm room, and not _my _room, and I just... went a little bit over-the-top."

"It's totally fine," said Dave, and they stood there and smiled until his dad cleared his throat awkwardly again. The two of them left to go bring up more bags from the car, Dave scrubbing a hand through his hair and his dad giving him that _knowing_ look for the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

><p>And really, the strange thing was that he and Kurt got on fairly well.<p>

Logically speaking, they really shouldn't have. Kurt was high-maintenance and flamboyant, insisting to be a "diva bitch" even as he smiled and made friends and fit in with everyone. And at Dave's old school, he had definitely been part of the jock crowd. He'd even been mean to a few kids who didn't deserve it – at least, he had before his extremely public and incredibly humiliating outing.

But despite the odds – or perhaps because of them – he and Kurt made decent roommates. Not that they saw each other very much. They both had heavy academic schedules, and Kurt had joined so many clubs that they sometimes only saw one another right before going to bed. But at the very least, Kurt had felt comfortable enough to tell him about his old school. About being pushed around because he couldn't hide what he was, didn't want to hide what he was. About how it had escalated, and Dalton had seemed like the only safe choice. How Kurt's dad had tried to get him a single room, but they couldn't afford it.

Dave had nodded, and the occasional commiserative noise, and fell more and more in love with Kurt by the second.

It wasn't because Dave was... like _that_, no matter what those fuckwads at his old school had shrieked at him. No matter what they all thought they saw. It was because Kurt was _Kurt_. Because his roommate was sharp, and funny, and bitingly sarcastic. Because he complained about Dave not keeping the room tidy one day, then left pots of moisturizer spread over every flat surface the next. Because he didn't ask Dave to elaborate on "I left my old school because people didn't like that I was different", never even raised an eyebrow about it. Because he always responded to Dave's texts with something funny or something mean, or even sometimes something sweet.

It didn't help that Kurt was achingly, painfully, heart-clenchingly beautiful. Kurt was stunning in a way that made Dave incredibly self-conscious of his bulky, athletic body; made him want to run his hands over Kurt's slender arms and smooth a palm over that incredibly flat stomach. Made Dave want to kiss him so badly that it hurt, because Dave just wasn't ready to admit... _that_... about himself yet, no matter what his cock might tell him.

Kurt was also tremendously odd.

Not because he was gay, or whatever. Even if Dave wasn't quite ready to admit that about himself just yet, he was definitely over being weirded out by gay kids in general. Kurt was odd because sometimes he responded to completely ordinary situations the strangest ways. Seemingly at random, too, Kurt would pause for great lengths of time with a pained, frustrated expression on his face – before continuing on exactly as usual. But it was probably some sort of weird post-traumatic stress thing, anyways, and Dave decided the best thing to do was ignore the episodes entirely.

At the time, it hadn't seemed important that a joking "go to sleep, Kurt," was enough to put the smaller boy out like a light in the middle of one of their pitch-black, way-past-bedtime conversations. Or that "c'mon, skip class with me" was enough to render Kurt into a great ball of tension and clenching fists until he finally gave in and came with Dave to go slack off somewhere.

For two months, practically all Dave could think about was Kurt Hummel. Where he was, what he was doing, which pencil-thin singer he was off spending time with this time. It was crystal clear that Dave wasn't Kurt's type, that Kurt wasn't interested – but that didn't stop Dave from falling into the kind of hopeless, pathetic crush that clawed at his brain and forced him to whack off at every available opportunity.

It didn't even seem important that Dave stopped trying to make other friends, after a while. Or that his grades started to slip from lack of focus, head swimming with blue eyes and a haughty smile instead of logarithms and isotherms.

None of it had really mattered.

At least, not until the day that everything changed.

* * *

><p>"Pass me my laptop, Karofsky."<p>

At Kurt's words, Dave glanced up from his _Advanced Calculus_ textbook. He looked at Kurt, sprawled out on his bed and surrounded by sheet music, a pencil tucked behind one ear. Then, he looked at the laptop. Which was sitting on Kurt's desk. Not three feet from him.

"Your laptop's right there."

"Mm. So it is." Kurt didn't even look up from the piece in front of him, the title of which Dave could read upside down. _Silly Love Songs_. Dave's stomach gave an uneasy flip.

"You could literally reach out and get it yourself right now," added Dave, laughing to cover the way his palms had begun to grow clammy. The way his face had started to flush. Because god, Kurt was gorgeous. Draped over the bed so casually, a few strands of hair beginning to escape from his ever-so-styled hairdo.

Gorgeous and distant. Dethatched. Aloof.

_Not yours. Never yours, Karofsky. _

"I could," confirmed Kurt. He pulled the pencil out from behind his ear and made a note on the score.

There was a beat – then Dave let out a frustrated grunt and stood. He crossed the room, deposited Kurt's laptop beside him on the bed, and practically stomped back to his own desk. Kurt's only response was a small, vague noise in the back of his throat.

"Oh my God, Hummel," said Dave, rolling his eyes. "You're so annoying, I swear."

"Hmm," replied Kurt, actually looking up through his lashes to meet Dave's gaze for the first time in the entire interaction. There was a playful twist to his lips; something almost like affection in his eyes. "Whatever, Karofsky."

Kurt opened the laptop and started to type. A few moments later, gorgeous blue eyes locked on the screen in front of him, he absently added: "Thanks."

Dave laughed – genuinely, this time.

"Go fuck yourself, Hummel," said Dave, trying for 'snide' but landing more so on 'affectionate'. Because Kurt could always make him laugh, even if the joke was at his expense.

Kurt, whose whole body had seized up and was clenching his hands into his sheets. Who looked, somehow, as though he was physically trying to stop himself from doing something. Whose eyes were wide, all of a sudden, and panic-stricken.

"Kurt?" asked Dave, concern starting to grow in his chest. "What's wrong?"

"I..." choked Kurt, biting down on his lip. He practically looked as though he was in physical pain.

"You feeling okay, man?" Dave could hear the worry in his own voice. Jesus Christ, what was wrong with him?

"I..." Kurt trailed again. There was actual _sweat _beginning to shine on his forehead, and it almost looked as though he was about to feint. "I have to –"

The last few words came out in a rush, and Kurt practically fell over himself in his haste to run into their en-suite bathroom and slam the door shut behind him. Dave blinked at the empty room, pausing for just a moment – before standing and practically running to the bathroom door.

"Kurt," barked Dave, trying the door handle. It was locked. "Kurt, are you sick or something?" An image of Kurt, tiny body curled up on their bathroom floor, flashed in his mind. Clinging to the toilet and shuddering with helpless retches, eyes stung with tears from the bile. A horrible feeling clenched at Dave's stomach.

There was a long and horrible pause before Kurt's voice, sounding strangled and strangely high, drifted from behind the locked door.

"... it's... f-fuck... it's _nothing_."

"Don't worry about grossing me out or whatever, man. I've seen worse. You should let me inside so I can help."

"_No_. Dave, no, please. Just go. Just ignore me. I'm serious, it's nothing. Just... just _go_."

It was possible that there was nothing else Kurt could have said that would have made Dave want to keep trying more badly. _Fuck this_, he thought. Kurt obviously needed him and just wasn't going to admit it. Sometimes, Kurt just didn't know what was best for him.

Dalton dormitories may have been comfortable and nice, but they were also very old. The fixtures just weren't what the used to be; window panes were loose and let in cold air, floorboards squeaked, and the bathroom lock was fairly easy to force if you knew how. Dave twisted the handle, then gave the door two sharp jolts and felt the old-fashioned hook-and-eye lock give way. He pushed the door open, and saw –

And saw Kurt, sitting on edge of the old-fashioned claw-foot bathtub with those _ohmygodsotight _pants and underwear pooled on the floor below. One leg up on the edge of the tub, and the brightly-coloured contained of Kurt's conditioned uncapped on the floor beside him. Kurt, who looked flushed, and humiliated, and horrified as he slid two long, perfect fingers in and out of his ass.

"F-fuck," stammered Kurt, face screwed up in shame and refusing to look Dave in the eye. A few strands of brown hair fell across his face, obscuring his eyes. "Dave, this isn't –"

"God, stop _talking_," groaned Dave, and Kurt's mouth slammed shut. His eyes were shining, blue and gorgeous and heartbreaking and _his fingers were still moving. _ Pushing in and out, slicked up with creamy white conditioner and looking like something right out of one of Dave's fantasies. "Just... let me touch you, Kurt. Please let me touch you."

And Kurt _didn't say no_. Just kept moving those fingers in and out, in and out. Dave stepped closer, kneeling down in front of the flushed boy and reaching up to cradle the side of his face, to force Kurt to look him in the eye. Kurt looked up and met his gaze with shining eyes full of _anguish_. Of _mortification_.

"It's okay," murmured Dave, reaching up with his other hand to grip Kurt's half-hard cock. Kurt whimpers at the touch, but those fingers kept moving. "It's okay, Kurt. I like you, too. God, I... I like you so much. There's nothing to be ashamed of."

The irony of Dave Karofsky telling someone else that there was no shame in loving another man was quickly shoved down in favour of _making Kurt feel good_. The sensation of holding another boy's cock in his hand was surreal, but also so utterly _right _that it made Dave let out a small, blissful noise in the back of his throat. Kurt's cock was smaller than his own, and the shape is also slightly different in a hundred little ways that Dave could think about all day. It only took a little while before Kurt is fully hard, panting and writhing precariously on the edge of the tub.

The entire time, Kurt held his gaze. His eyes looked pleading, as though silently begging for something. A harder touch, a faster speed, to be filled up with something bigger than his own fingers – Dave couldn't be certain. All he was sure of was how prettily Kurt's body twisted and twitched under his ministrations.

Eventually, though, Dave wanted more. Wanted to be _inside_Kurt's body, to touch him everywhere at once. The hand not on Kurt's cock reached down and stilled Kurt's hand.

"Stop," murmured Dave. "Just... let me."

Obediently, Kurt shuddered and slid his own fingers out.

Dave took his hand off Kurt's cock for a few precious seconds to fumble with the bottle of conditioner, squeezing a generous amount onto his fingers. He then put the bottle back down on the floor. When he looked up at Kurt again, the smaller boy looked... frantic. The sight of him, already spread out and loose for Dave's fingers, made Dave groan out loud. He waited a few seconds before reaching forward and sliding one of his own fingers inside Kurt's ass.

Kurt practically _keened_ at the intrusion, tensing up _hard_. That made sense: Dave's fingers were so much larger than Kurt's own. Dave reached up to give Kurt's flagging erection a few more strokes, continuing to twist his hand in time with his thrusts until Kurt was groaning and gasping once more.

It was an incredibly strange sensation, having one of his fingers inside of someone like this. Although Dave had dated girls, and had gone fairly far with a few of them, he had never done anything like this before. The position of his hand felt awkward and cramped, and the tightness and _heat_ of Kurt's body around his finger was unbelievable. When he felt he had given Kurt enough time to adjust, he added another finger. Kurt _sobbed_, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

"It's okay, baby," Dave muttered nonsensically, his own arousal almost painfully still trapped within his jeans. He increased the speed of his hand on Kurt's cock, pumping his fingers in time and making sure to twist them in the way that made Kurt shudder. "Feels so good, doesn't it? You're so gorgeous, Kurt. So beautiful for me, like this. Taking my fingers so deep. Come for me, Kurt. Just –"

Before Dave could speak another word, Kurt's mouth flew open in a wordless shout. He came in spurts over Dave's hand, shuddering and panting. The sight of Kurt tipping over the edge was quite possibly the hottest thing Dave had ever seen in his life. He groaned, stroking Kurt through the orgasm as he would for himself after masturbating, until the last of Kurt's come was splattered over Dave's hand. After a few moments had passed, he slowly and carefully pulled his fingers out. Kurt whined quietly, looking shell-shocked.

Without waiting for Kurt to speak, Dave leaned up and kissed Kurt on the lips. And oh, god, it was perfect. Better than kissing a girl had ever been. Kurt's come was all over his hand, cooling rapidly, and his knees ached from staying kneeling on the ground for so long. But it was perfect. So perfect. _Kurt _was perfect.

"So good, baby," murmured Dave, voice strained from arousal. He was close; _too close_ to wait. Not caring about getting his jeans dirty, Dave reached down with his come-splattered hand and unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, pulling his cock out. He reached down and began to frantically stroke himself, smearing Kurt's come all over his cock. Making it slick, making his hand fly over it impossibly quickly. "Fuck yeah, Kurt, so _good_ –"

It took an embarrassingly short amount of time before Dave was coming over his own had, shaking and clenching as pleasure gripped his body. He gasped, looking down in time to see himself coming over his already come-slicked hand. The sight made him shudder in a pleasure so intense it was almost like coming again.

"God, Kurt," Dave gasped, shuddering through the aftershocks. Mind cleared from his desperate need to orgasm, the pain in his knees and legs was too strong to ignore any longer. He stood up shakily, grabbing a wad of toilet paper from the dispenser to clean off the worst of his hand and own cock before tucking it back into his jeans. He disposed of it, then grabbed some fresh tissue to clean off Kurt. It should have felt strange – wrong, even – touching another boy's cock without the frenzy of _want_ to make it acceptable. It didn't, though. Cleaning Kurt up felt... nice. Important.

Dave was so distracted from this revelation that it took him far longer than it should have to look up into Kurt's face.

Tears were streaming down Kurt's face, catching in his lashes and making his cheeks shine. Despite the tears, he remained absolutely silent. Kurt's lips were trembling, and he almost looked as though he was going to be sick. His expression was one of absolute anguish.

"Babe. Baby, what's wrong?"

Kurt shook his head violently, making his hair fly even more out of place. He looked right into Dave's eyes, and opened his mouth as if to speak – but no sound came out. He made a desperate, frantic noise at this, starting to shake so hard Dave could _see _the tremors wrack his body. Starting to breathe too hard, too fast while he scrambled to get his clothes back on again.

_What the hell is this? _

"Kurt, you're freaking me out. Why aren't you...?" Dave trailed off, and Kurt turned and fixed him with a devastated expression as he buttoned his fly with shaking fingers. The smaller boy opened his mouth as if to speak again, but once more no words came.

In some deep part of Dave's mind, something clicked. A realization, an amassing of facts. Stringing together dozens of little red flags he should have caught before.

"You can talk," Dave intoned, and the floodgates opened.

"Oh god oh god oh _god_," choked Kurt, twisting his hands up in his clothes and _shaking_. "I couldn't... I didn't want... fuck, Dave, I don't..." He trailed off into sobs, and the sounds Kurt made while crying were so much worse than the silence had been.

Dave wrapped a broad arm around Kurt's small shoulders and led him out of the bathroom to Dave's own bed, gently guiding him down into a sitting position. Kurt let himself be led, and Dave sat down next to him with his arm still squeezed tight around the shaking boy. Murmured comforting noises while suspicion grew, hot and horrible, in Dave's mind. A few minutes passed before Kurt managed to control himself and get his breathing down to almost-normal levels.

Practically feeling dethatched from his own body, Dave decided to test his unbelievable, impossible theory. "Tell me what's wrong, Kurt," he said, giving Kurt's shoulders a squeeze and being careful of his wording. And after the briefest of moments, Kurt began to speak; a torrent of words that came out in a rush.

It all came out. The curse that had been placed on an ancestor in his mother's family hundreds of years ago and had never been broken, had never been resolved, and now rarely manifested in that family like a genetic disease. Dave listened, shocked. Echoes of the ancient magic were incredibly rare. Its practitioners had long since been wiped out for the danger they posed, and their art lost to the world. Something like this, that defied time and space to re-assert itself again and again must have been incredibly powerful. And incredibly horrible.

"It's been like this since I was born, Dave: I have to do what people tell me to." Kurt's words were choked, but certain. Unwavering. "I can't say no, and I can't stop. It _hurts _if I try, so much, and I can never hold out very long before I... before I give in. It's... it's not a stupid compulsion, or a personality thing. _I can't say no. _And... and I hate it. I hate it so much, and no one knows. Just my family, no one else, it's safer that way. Dave... I know that you didn't know."

"What just happened... it happened because I told you to." Dave could hear the dullness in his own voice. The devastation.

Kurt hesitated. Then he shifted uncomfortably and said, "Yeah. Yeah, it did."

And the words were like a physical blow to Dave's chest. Everything he had ever wanted was collapsing around him, falling apart into rubble and dust and emptiness. Being wrenched away from him, stolen. Because he'd _had Kurt_. He had touched him, and exposed himself for what he was, and really believed that it was the beginning of something so special and wonderful and _his_.

_It doesn't have to be over, _ said a little voice in the back of his head. _You can make him. _Take him. _Keep him close, and take care of him, and keep him safe and happy and yours. _

"Dave," said Kurt uneasily, turning out of Dave's grasp to look at him with worried eyes. "I like you a lot. You know that."

_No one ever has to know. This is all you've ever wanted. Are you going to let him take that away from you? _

"But... but I just don't feel that way about –"

"What if I ordered you to kiss me?" Dave looked straight ahead as the words left him, calm and measured. Kurt jerked away, a look of horror stealing onto his face.

"Shut up," he hissed. "Shut up, don't say that."

"But I could. I could... I could tell you to kiss me, or love me, or –"

"Don't you _dare_." There was real fear in Kurt's eyes, panic starting to bloom in his expression. "Dave, please. Don't do this. This... this isn't what you want. It isn't what_ I_ –"

"Be with me," said Dave, and the words came out strong and sure. He squashed the increasingly nauseated feeling in his stomach, the guilt growing in his mind. This was best for both of them, in the end. He could make Kurt so happy, if Kurt would just give him the chance. "Stay here at Dalton with me. Be mine. Don't tell anyone, and don't leave, and... and be mine."

"Fuck you, Karofsky," spat Kurt, face twisted up in pain and eyes brimming with betrayal. "Fuck you, I'm going to _kill _you –"

"Don't hurt me. And don't hurt yourself," added Dave as an afterthought, leaning in to run a hand through Kurt's hair. The smaller boy looked furiously at him through tear-filled eyes, flinching away from the touch. But he did not run. Did not scream, or fight, or kick. And that... god, that was intoxicating.

_I can still have this. Can still have him. _

_He'll be happy for it, in the end. _

"Just let me have you," whispered Dave, leaning so that their foreheads are pressed together. Still sitting next to one another on the bed, holding Kurt close – and not going to let him go. Never going to let him go.

Kurt's whole body coiled up like a spring, tensing and clenching; Dave realized that this must be what Kurt fighting looked like. He held Kurt close through it, murmuring nonsense words and stroking his hair. Dave held him through it. Held Kurt as his face flushed and his eyes squeezed shut as he resisted, and fought, and tried so hard.

Until eventually, he stopped. Looked up at Dave with defeat and devastation in his eyes. And something else – something so foreign to the brave, haughty Kurt that Dave was hardly able to recognize it. _Fear_.

"I love you, Kurt," said Dave at last. "And don't be scared. Just... kiss me."

Two months after Dave Karofsky met Kurt Hummel, Kurt leaned in with his eyes clamped shut and kissed Dave for the second time. Dave had closed his own eyes, held Kurt close, and pretended it was real.

* * *

><p>Tonight, less than an hour after forbidding Kurt from seeing Jeff anymore, Dave holds Kurt's sleeping body close against his chest as they lie in bed. He looks down at that beautiful face, peaceful like this only in slumber, and keeps on pretending.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

The year Kurt turned six years old, he was enrolled at Lima's public elementary school. The decision was not an easy one.

Burt, ever cautious and pragmatic, had been wary of sending his son into an environment where they had almost no way of monitoring him. His concern was valid; school would be the first time Kurt would be able to interact with children his age without parental supervision. Kurt was too young, he insisted, too defenceless against any bad orders without his parents around to defuse them. Burt was in favour of home schooling from the start.

It was Elizabeth who fought for elementary school, every inch as passionate and convicted as she was in every other facet of her life. She was adamant that Kurt deserved a proper childhood, that they owed it to their boy to give him a normal life in whatever ways they could.

The two of them clashed over the issue on and off for an entire year, furious whispered conversations growing more and more frequent as September approached until they were a practically daily occurrence. There were tears, and harsh words, and even a few shouting matches that Kurt had the misfortune to stumble in on. It was hard, seeing his parents fight that way – and, to make matters worse, about him. But there was never any hatred or spite in the arguments between his parents, even at their worst. Just concern, and anxiety, and a shared deep love for their son.

Elizabeth won out in the end. On the first of September, round face smattered with light freckles and clad in too-big overalls, six-year-old Kurt stepped into his very first classroom.

It went fairly well, at first. Kurt's first grade teacher, Ms. Campbell, was a sweet-faced woman with dark hair and skin who wore pretty sweaters with sensible shoes and loved themed lessons. One week they would focus on China, the next on fossils, and the week after that on how plants grew. They learned how many inches were in a foot, where the United States was on a map, and how to read _Go, Dog, Go _and _Sir Small and the Dragonfly_. Although Kurt's mother had already taken him past the first grade reading level, it was even more fun to discover stories with children his age than it was curled up in bed next to his mother, warm and safe as she helped him sound out the more complicated words.

However much fun school was, though, it never rendered the curse any less of a problem.

Although Burt and Elizabeth had coached him what felt like a million times on how to bend, reinterpret, and resist against orders, this did not save Kurt from awkward and hard-to-explain moments in class. Instructions as simple as "sing as loud as you can, everyone!" made Kurt belt out songs at a horrible wail that made the other students cover their ears until someone told him to stop, and being commanded to "sit at your desk and not make a sound" was enough to leave him a trembling mess from the exertion of trying to remain absolutely silent.

But these incidents were, for the most part, harmless. Easily explained away, no matter how much they made Kurt pout and stomp at his parents. No matter how much they made him cry with childish frustration at how _awful _it was that no one else was like him, how _unfair_ it was that he couldn't tell his classmates and Ms. Campbell what was wrong with him. On those evenings, Elizabeth would hold him close and stroke his hair while Burt gave his wife significant glances across the table.

It was all manageable.

Until the day Kurt went missing.

On that day, group of eight first graders stood in a cluster on the edge of the field. They were small and sedentary as whirls of older students ran around them. It was a cool day, cloudy with a light breeze and perfect for playing outside.

Kurt scuffed at the grass with his shoe. He would rather have been sitting on the steps reading, or on the jungle gym with his friend Peter. But someone had called at him to come over and play, and his feet had moved before he could even think about it.

"Okay, you all have to pick a place and hide there until I find you," said Sarah, a bossy girl with thin blonde hair she wore in pigtails. She had a slight lisp, accentuated by the gap where she had already begun to lose her baby teeth.

"I don't want to play hide and seek," said Kurt petulantly. "I want to play on the jungle gym." Reading wasn't cool enough to get them to let him leave.

"Well, _I'm_ in charge and_ I'm_ saying you play with us," said Sarah haughtily, crossing her arms.

"Yeah, Kurt. Just play," added James, a round boy with square glasses who did everything Sarah told him to. Kurt scowled, but didn't say anything in response.

"'Kay," continued Sarah. "When I say so, everyone runs to find the best hiding place. That means you too, Kurt. Go find the most secret hiding place and don't make a sound. Stay there until I find you. Ready? One, two, three – go!"

They all ran. Sarah clamped her hands over her eyes and began to count to sixty. When the blonde girl finally reached one minute, she scampered off enthusiastically to find her classmates. By the time fifteen-minute afternoon recess was over, she had discovered four of the seven hiders – and when the bell rang, two of those still tucked away darted out of their hiding places to run back into the school building.

Half of the class went straight to music, and the other half continued on immediately to physical education in the gym. It wasn't until forty-five minutes later, when they were all gathered back in the classroom with Ms. Campbell doing roll call, that anyone noticed Kurt had never come back.

As soon as Ms. Campbell noticed his absence, a call was put out over the intercom. The principle and office administration were quickly summoned, and the bathrooms, music room, and playground were checked. When a second intercom call was put through and Kurt still did not appear, the school's office called Kurt's parents – as well as the local police.

It wasn't until long after the end of the school day that a police officer found Kurt. Curled into a ball and sobbing silently, tucked into a supposedly-locked outdoor tool shed where the janitor kept his rakes and mowers. He had dirt smudges on his cheeks, and was shaking so hard from the effort of remaining silent that the discovering officer at first assumed he had mild hypothermia. When he was taken back to his parents, his mother held him to her chest and sobbed helplessly, repeating senseless apologies over and over again as he clung to her shoulders. His father, seemingly not noticing the tears streaming down his own cheeks, rubbed Kurt's back and repeated over and over that he was safe, safe now.

That night, long after the commotion had ended and he had been put to bed, Kurt woke thirsty and padded into the kitchen for a drink. A light was already on in the kitchen, its soft glow trickling into the hallway. When he got a little closer, Kurt froze at the sound of his mother's voice. She sounded strained. Wrung-out.

"... my fault, all my fault. I never should have pushed him so young, Burt. I can't... I can't believe I hurt our boy so badly."

"We've learned now." His father's voice, soft and comforting. Kurt snuck closer and peered around the corner to see his mother perched in a kitchen chair, hands twisting anxiously in her lap. His father standing behind her with a reassuring arm on her shoulders. "We know better now, Lizzy. No school, not until he's old enough to find a way to get out of these scrapes on his own."

Kurt's heart felt as though it stuttered and stopped. No school? What about his friends, his classes? They were supposed to be covering the weather next week, and parts of a volcano the week after that.

The shed had been scary, certainly. Lonely and terrifying, yes. But Kurt couldn't comprehend why it was such a big deal.

He leaned in, listening as hard as he could and squinting through the dim light. His mother was wringing her hands in her lap. Her face was swollen, puffy.

"I just... I just wanted him to give him a normal childhood, Burt. For as long as he could have one. Because it _is _my fault. It's my family that gave him that... that..." Elizabeth's voice shook. "Why didn't I get it, Burt? Why does _our boy_ have to suffer instead? It's so unfair, and I hate it, and I just – I just want him to be _happy_."

"He will be, Lizzy. He will." Burt's voice was reassuring and calm. He wrapped his arms around Elizabeth's shoulders and tucked his face into her neck. Kurt couldn't make out the next words he spoke, but they made his mother's shoulders shake and a few tears leak out of her eyes.

"I just want my boy to be happy," whispered Elizabeth, raw and sad and full of so many emotions Kurt just can't understand.

Those were the last words he heard before he turned and fled back into the darkened hallway, the water forgotten in his haste to return to the safety of his bed.

* * *

><p>On Sunday evening the common room of Kurt's residence building is sparsely occupied and subdued, especially considering the day. Even those students who have the opportunity to visits family and friends over the weekend are generally back and ready to socialize on the brink of a new week – or at least ready to cram through their neglected homework.<p>

Today, however, the common room is practically empty. Its squashy, well-worn couches hold only a small smattering of boys. The secluded corner full of tables and chairs, generally monopolized by keeners and intense academics, boasts only one hunched figure. Surrounded by books and hunched slightly in his chair, Kurt Hummel perches on his chair in his lonesome corner of the room and stares at the full page of notes in front of him.

When Kurt had first started at Dalton, he was always among the flock of its students who left campus every weekend to visit loved ones. It was practically a running joke among his fellow Warblers that the Hallowed Hummel-Hudson Friday Night Dinner must be _far _more exciting than whatever shenanigans they had planned, since Kurt was always so willing to say goodbye his friends for a few days in favour of driving back into Lima. He'd always tried his hardest to make time for his McKinley friends, too, no matter how much Burt had missed him throughout the week. Coffee dates with Mercedes were a _must, _and Tina and Rachel were practically guaranteed to drag him out shopping at some juncture.

Kurt barely ever goes home on weekends, anymore. He's only made it home twice since Dave – _don't call me by my last name, Kurt, it sounds so formal _– discovered his secret. Both times he dared to head back to Lima, he left Dalton so brimming with _what not to do _instructions that seeing his father, stepmother, and stepbrother had almost been unbearable.

_Don't hint that anything's wrong. Act normal. Don't do anything you wouldn't ordinarily do. Say you're having fun at school. Just act happy. Leave as soon as possible, Kurt, I'll miss you if you're gone too long. _

Besides, a few weeks ago Dave had ordered him to _spend more time with him_. Staying at Dalton on weekends is a way to satisfy the command without necessarily having to be _alone _with his roommate.

And so Kurt sits amid his stacks of textbooks on verb conjugation and chemical reactions, staring down at his spiral binder full of neatly hand-written notes, and tries to convince himself that he isn't avoiding Dave Karofsky. Never mind the fact that over the past few months Kurt has been ordered not to spend more than a few hours' worth of time with first one friend, and then another, and that after last night virtually all of the people he is even remotely friendly with in this building are now off-limits. Never mind that Jeff has been giving him strange looks from his place on the one of the couches all evening.

Never mind the fact that he wasn't allowed to go home to his family. Never mind that, because of this, he has had so much free time over the past two days that he's managed to review so thoroughly for his midterms that his head might explode if he reads one more paragraph.

Because _don't avoid me, Kurt, fucking hell _leaves a lot of wiggle room, if he looks at it the right way. He's better at finding loopholes now that he ever was before. And if Kurt can convince himself that he still needs to stay here and study, he won't have to go up to his bedroom at six o'clock with the rest of the night stretched out before him. Won't have to go _quite _so soon to start the parade of humiliation and filth he cannot stop his feet from seeking out forever.

Won't have to face the whole rest of the evening as Dave Karofsky's _thing_.

When Kurt was smaller – eleven and twelve, and even for a few years afterward – he used to make a game out of it. Out of how long he could resist the compulsion that filled his body and left him weak and panting, wracked with pain and desperate for it to all be _over, _to just _do _whatever people told him to and make the hurting go away.

Simple, harmless commands like "say hello to your dad for me!" from the neighbour over the backyard fence were always the best fodder. He would smile and nod – then come inside the house, sit down on the floor, and wait. Wait for the creeping dizziness to fill his mind until the world would spin and twirl and tilt on its edge. For the sickness to come, waves of nausea that filled up his stomach and left him feeling as though insects were clawing at his insides. For the pain. Headaches so hard and strong they practically blinded him and the rapidly growing ache that flared inside his limbs and left him sweating, helpless. And all the while, listening to the voice chant inside his head:

_Do it. Just do it, you have to. Do it do it doitdoitdoitdoit –_

Sometimes the pain became too much, and he would give up the game in frustration. Throw in the towel, all the while promising himself that he would do better next time; would be stronger, more resolute.

Other times, his body would move seemingly without his permission to complete the task, like a marionette with invisible strings. One moment resisting with all his might, and the next moment watching his body fulfill the command as his mind sneered on in disgust.

In either event, testing the curse always ended the same way: in failure. There was no resisting, not really. There was only how long he could hold out before giving in. By all logic, the curse should have made him obedient. Malleable and suggestive, comfortable in the knowledge that he simply _had no choice_.

Instead, it made Kurt's heart hard.

Sharp edges and sarcasm, contrary whenever possible and fighting all the while. Made him claw tooth and nail against following even the simplest of commands all through his adolescence. Made him dress to stand out, to be different despite what people thought or said to him. Being himself despite it all made everything more difficult, but at least he was _trying_. For every frantic phone call to his dad, to Finn, to _anyone_ after some bully told him to go slit his wrists and frantic to have the order reversed, it was almost worth it. Because at least he wasn't _accepting_ it. Wasn't throwing up his hands in defeat without a fight, letting those ignorant and hateful people control his life even with their great potential to do so.

Running away to Dalton had felt like a defeat, but it had at least provided some relief.

Until Dave found out, and Kurt's most private and unthinkable nightmares came true in a single afternoon.

One of the few boys across the room laughs loudly, and Kurt blinks as the noise brings him back to the present. And all at once, Kurt realizes that he is sitting by himself at a desk, staring into space and grinding his teeth as he grips his pencil almost hard enough to break it, and that this isn't actually normal behaviour. He should be reading, or jotting down notes, or _something _to justify staying here. Almost distantly, he begins to feel the sickness building up in his stomach; the desperate need to go up to his room pulling at every muscle of his body.

For the first few weeks after Dave found out about the curse, Kurt fought every one of his orders with everything he had. Railing against them until his head felt as though it was about to explode, finding loopholes and exploiting them at every opportunity, snarling and glaring through their time together until Dave commanded him not to. He clawed against the compulsion in his mind practically every second he was awake, mentally digging his heels into the ground and resisting every step of the way.

He'd been proud of himself, back then. Certain that there was some sort of way out, if only he fought hard enough. That he could out-think Dave, or find a way to run away, or finally find a way to resist the compulsion he'd spent his life imprisoned by.

Despite everything, when Dave finally took what he wanted there was nothing Kurt could do to stop it from happening.

There was no point in wasting his energy fighting it then, and there is no point in fighting it now. As soon as Kurt makes the decision to go upstairs, the pain disappears as though it was never there to begin with.

He takes his time tidying the books and gathering his pencils into their case before heading for the door, nodding awkwardly at Jeff's half-wave from the couch. Ignoring the boy makes Kurt's throat feel choked and raw: he likes Jeff. Likes his goofy smile, and his ridiculous puns, and the way he makes French conjugation almost funny. But it just can't be avoided; Kurt has already used up his few hours of time with the other boy for this week.

Kurt climbs the stairs toward his and Dave's room, feet heavy with resignation like a man heading for the gallows. And when he unlocks the dorm room door, Dave looks up from his bed and smiles warmly in greeting. The sight makes Kurt's stomach clench.

"Hey, babe," says Dave, eyes full of affection. He's wearing a pair of old plaid pyjama pants and a plain white t-shirt, hair rumpled in a way that tells Kurt he hasn't bothered to leave the dorm room today. Dave doesn't have too many other friends, these days. "I just finished downloading that movie you wanted to watch – _Burlesque_, right? Feel up to watching?"

And Kurt has discovered that there is something even worse than the fact that Dave has essentially turned him into a toy for his own amusement. Worse than the way Dave invades his body and his mind every day, or the way he smiles and strokes Kurt's arm with feeble delusion in his eyes, or the way he's spent the past two months systematically cutting everyone and everything else out of Kurt's life.

More horrible than all of that is the fact that people can get used to anything. Because only heroes in storybooks can fight forever, can keep railing against impossible odds until their dying breath.

And Kurt simply cannot fight every battle anymore.

"Sure," Kurt intones, because if he says 'no' he'll only be ordered to. He goes to sit next to Dave on the bed, all the while feeling sick with shame and hating himself for the surrender. They watch the movie together, and Kurt doesn't even flinch when Dave pulls him tight against his side and presses a soft kiss to his forehead.

No matter how helpless and empty it makes him feel.

* * *

><p>On Monday afternoon, Kurt heads to the library during his free period. He's careful to avoid eye contact with David (<em>stay away from that guy, Kurt, he smiles at you way too much) <em>and munches mechanically on an apple as he moves through the hall (_this hunger strike thing is only hurting _you_; eat three meals day, Kurt, I'm serious). _

There's no point, no point at all, in actively trying to resist Dave's orders – or even in trying to shy away from the larger boy. It would only make him suspicious, more likely to limit Kurt even further. Dave controls every known aspect of Kurt's life, now. Every detail of who he spends time with, and when, and how.

Kurt walks into the library, heads to the very back of the main hall, and pushes the door to a tiny study room open. A compact boy with heavily slicked-down hair in a matching Dalton uniform is bent over the only table, surrounded by stacks of sheet music and compilation books. His dark eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, eyes fixed on what looks like an acapella version of some overly-current pop song. There is an empty chair across from him. At the sound of the door opening, the boy looks up – and smiles at Kurt in such a warm and welcoming way that, for a moment, he feels like a regular teenager again.

"Hey, Kurt," grins Blaine, continuing to fix Kurt with that _look_. Caring and fond, like he's the most special individual in the universe. "Ready to pick out a song for Regionals?"

"I most certainly am," responds Kurt in most affluent tones, closing the door quietly behind him and moving to take the empty seat.

Dave might control every known aspect of Kurt's life, but Kurt has been hiding Blaine for months.

* * *

><p>"How about 'Firework'?" asks Blaine twenty minutes later, holding up a piece of sheet music and waggling his thick eyebrows suggestively. "Bit of an earnest ballad to draw the judges in!"<p>

Kurt raises an eyebrow, staring in disbelief at the offending song. "'Earnest ballad'? Good _god_. You'd honestly use any opportunity to sing atrocious Katy Perry songs, wouldn't you?"

"Hey! I admire her as an artist and an icon!"

"It takes more autotune to get that girl on-key than it does for _T-Pain_, Blaine, I swear." Kurt rolls his eyes, shuffling through the stack of music in front of him and feigning nonchalance. After a few moments he comes across a piece that makes him quickly stifle a snigger. "How about 'You Can't Stop the Beat'?" he asks, working hard to keep his face completely deadpan. "It's catchy, high-energy, a real show-stopper... certain to wow those judges right into next week..."

The look of utter horror on Blaine's face is enough to make the effort of keeping his face straight worthwhile.

"We can't go to Regionals with _Broadway_, Kurt, it's suicide!" exclaims Blaine, looking affronted. "We need something _current_, something _catchy _in order to..."

Blaine trails off as Kurt lets out a snort of laughter, clapping a pale hand over his mouth to stifle the sound. They _are _in a library, after all. Blaine's expression softens.

"Yeah, yeah, make fun," says Blaine, the corner of his mouth tugging up in a reluctant smile.

"Your obsession with Top 40 really is incredibly disturbing," Kurt chuckles. When Blaine reaches across the discarded sheet music to brush his knuckles over Kurt's fingers a moment later, the touch makes Kurt shiver in a way that is almost unthinkably pleasant.

He wonders, absently, if there's something wrong with him for liking it when Blaine's fingers skim against his own, or the curly-haired boy rests a hand casually on his shoulder. If it makes him even more broken, some kind of switch turned the wrong way in his brain. Because everything he's ever seen about victims of... of what's happening to him... makes him think he should probably hate being touched by anyone. Logically, Kurt _should _hate it. Should want to pull away.

He doesn't, though. Instead, he just wants more than easy friend-touching. Because when Blaine's skin touches his, it almost makes him forget everything else in the world. Almost makes him forget Dave, and the shell of a person he's turning Kurt into. Every kiss, every touch, every whispered word and burst of pleasure he _doesn't want_ chipping away at who he is until there's barely nothing left.

Dave... Dave is jealous, and possessive, and controlling in the extreme. He knows Dave doesn't want Kurt to have a life outside of him, not really. Wants Kurt at his beck and call, and so what if Kurt's entire life has to be sacrificed to achieve that end?

But more disquieting than anything else is the way Dave _tries so hard_ to make himself believe the lie he's created. Even as he builds walls and cages Kurt in, Dave will do anything to believe that Kurt loves him back.

In Dave's mind, Kurt is his boyfriend. And good boyfriends don't outright tell one another they can't have friends. It's this bit of delusion that has allowed Kurt to cling to his furtive friendship with Blaine – even as everything else has been stripped away, piece by piece.

Thinking about his roommate – about everything Dave's taken from him, everything he's made Kurt's body do and even forced him to _enjoy_ – makes nausea swell up in Kurt's stomach, twisting and anxious. Makes his skin crawl with dirt he can't scrub away.

Kurt can only be with Blaine for a few hours a week at best, and even then only in the most tucked away corners of the school. But the time they do spend together... it makes Kurt feel human again, if only for a little while. Makes him feel practically normal; talking and joking and laughing with another boy his age, not worrying about what he'll have to do in order to avoid forbidden to text his brother or ordered to his knees at the next opportunity.

In another world, Kurt thinks he might have fallen for Blaine harder than a tonne of bricks. Would have primped and preened for his attention, sighing at how _gentlemanly_ and _handsome _and _kind _he is. Here and now, limited by _don't flirt with anyone else _and _be mine_ and Dave watching him carefully every time he interacts with another boy in public, all he can be is Blaine's friend – but it's enough. Blaine's friendship keeps him sane. Makes him feel relaxed when every other moment of the day leaves him anxious and sickened and so very full of hate.

Blaine makes him feel safe, as though he can't be hurt here. Not really. Not in the ways that count.

"Whatever, Broadway Boy," grins Blaine, shaking his head. "Now quit your giggling and pass me my pencil, mister."

Kurt doesn't hesitate, quickly picking the pencil up and handing it over to his friend without any fight. While he used to resent any kind of order at all, these sorts of innocent commands don't really bother him anymore. They aren't intentionally cruel, at least. They aren't made knowingly, to keep him boxed up trapped inside his own mind.

When Blaine's fingers brush against his again as he hands over the pencil, Blaine doesn't pull away. Instead, Blaine gives his hand a little squeeze.

"We miss you, you know," says Blaine quietly, brow furrowed and dark eyes full of concern.

"What?" Kurt asks stupidly, jolted out of his own thoughts and back into the present with startled speed.

"The Warblers," Blaine continues, before letting out a tired sigh. He pauses for a long moment. "Kurt... I know that you've had some hard times recently."

Kurt winces at the reminder of the lie he told Blaine when he first started missing practice a two months ago, and told again when he stopped coming all together. _I'm just... having a serious family crisis. No, I don't want to talk about it. I just don't have time for show choir right now, Blaine, I'm sorry. _

He nods, looking down at the table between them.

"And believe me when I say that I understand: I've had my fair share of family conflict and tragedy in my life, too." Blaine's thumb is rubbing gentle circles into the back of Kurt's hand. Careful and gentle. Supportive. It makes Kurt think of the way Dave strokes his hair when they lie in bed together at night, and his body tenses up against his will. Blaine doesn't seem to notice.

"But Kurt... we're your friends. And all we want is be here for you when you need us. All _I _want is to be here for you, and not just for forty minutes during your free period twice a week." Blaine gives his hand a squeeze. "Just let me in, Kurt. I want to help."

"I know," whispers Kurt, choking slightly on the words. Because he needs Blaine, needs him so much. But no matter how lovely and kind Blaine's intentions might be, there is no way Kurt can physically make himself go to his friend for help.

If he could, he would cry and scream and beg for Blaine to help him. Would say _help me, please help me. He's making me, I can't help it. I want to die when he touches me, I want to _die _and I can't even kill myself, Blaine. I'm only ever myself when I'm with you, and I can't even tell you how dead I feel all the time. Can only go through every day acting the part and hoping to hell he gets hit by a bus or falls down the stairs and I can finally _leave.

But Dave's orders leave no room for interpretation in that regard, and no matter how much Kurt wants to say the words they simply will not leave his mouth.

"Thank you," he says instead, the words subdued and carefully spoken. "I'm not... I can't, but... when I'm ready?"

"Of course," says Blaine after a moment, pulling his hand away and giving Kurt an understanding look. "Whenever you want, Kurt. Any time."

There's a long pause. Kurt licks his lips, and after a few moments begins to shuffle through one of the stacks of sheet music.

"How about this one?" says Kurt at last, barely bothering to look at the title of the piece before he holds it up for Blaine to see. Blaine raises an eyebrow.

"'Good Life' by Onerepublic?" Blaine hums appreciatively, taking the sheet music and squinting at the lines. "The background instrumentals could be really interesting in acapella, don't you think?" He grins. "Kurt, this might actually work."

"Whatever would you do without me?" Kurt asks, forcing his lips into a smile.

* * *

><p>On Kurt's way between the library and his next class, Dave comes up behind him in the hallway and claps a broad hand over Kurt's shoulder.<p>

His sudden appearance is like a freak change in weather after the comfort and safety of being with Blaine. Dave's grip on his shoulder is unmistakable, and Kurt's whole body tenses in horrible anticipation.

"Meet me in the dorm after class, dude!" the broader boy exclaims in a jovial tone of voice before grinning and heading off down another corridor. Kurt closes his eyes in the crowded hallway, the flow of students gently jostling him back and forth, and feels sick.

This is how Kurt winds up standing in their dorm room at 3:30 in the afternoon, forcing his hands not to twist in the fabric of his blazer as he waits for Dave to arrive.

Even though Kurt knows what Dave must want of him to have sought him out in public in such a way, he keeps his uniform on in its entirety while he waits. Shoes and all. The protection his clothes provide is non-existent, but the charade almost makes him feel better. He jumps when he hears footsteps outside the door, followed by a key being twisted in the lock before Dave pushes the door open.

"Hey," says Dave, smiling as he closes the door behind him. "You came."

_You didn't give me any choice._

"Yeah," says Kurt in a stilted voice. His fingers itch with the need to move from his sides, but he keeps them stationary.

"C'mere," says Dave, and Kurt holds his body as tense as he can to stop his feet from moving. Clenches his fists, squeezes his eyes shut and focusing his entire mind on _holding still_. His stomach clenches in pain, and after ten seconds the dizziness is so bad it feels as though the whole world is spinning. Pain flares up so badly that he loses concentration for a moment, and his legs almost move on their own accord before he stops them. If he can just hold on a little _longer_, stop himself from _going going going you have to go to him go go go go __**go –**_

Before Kurt even realizes what has happened, the pain is over and the nausea is all gone and he is stepping forward into Dave Karofsky's arms. Dave gently pulls Kurt against his chest and into a hug. As though nothing odd just happened. Kurt wants to cry, but his eyes stay determinedly dry.

_Don't cry about this anymore, baby, it's okay. I've got you. Don't cry. _

There's no point in resisting anymore. Kurt lets Dave hold him like that, Kurt's face pressed into the crook of his neck and Dave's arms wrapped around his shoulders. Dave isn't that much taller than Kurt, but he's broader. Larger, too, with well-defined arms and a small layer of softness along his midsection.

"How's your day going, babe?" Dave murmurs, his breath tickling the shell of Kurt's ear.

"Fine," says Kurt, not bothering to elaborate. This is a formality Dave always enacts when they see each other, as though he cares at all what Kurt does when they aren't together. Besides, he knows Dave well enough by now to realize that there is no avoiding what is about to happen. No stalling. "How's yours?"

"Mmm, it was good. Went to the fitness centre for a bit before class. Had a pretty decent time in class." Dave leans down and presses a soft kiss to Kurt's neck. Kurt shudders. "I want to try something new," murmurs Dave, pulling Kurt tight against him. "Say you want to try it."

"I want to try it."

"Good."

Kurt is grateful for the wording. For the most part, Dave has stopped giving him commands that change the way he thinks or feels. Before, right after Dave discovered his secret and wasn't censoring his commands at all, it had only taken him a few days to have a full break-down in front of the larger boy. Sobbing and shrieking and begging, all dignity gone. Because with every '_don't be afraid_' and _'don't think about other guys that way'_, Kurt could feel his mind breaking down. Neurons firing, making new connections, creating mental blocks and walls that violated his mind. Trapping him inside his head and changing who he was, unable to even think for himself. Rearranging his thoughts and feelings until they may as well have been someone else's.

Dave had cooed, and held him close, and stroked his hair as Kurt cried and shivered in his arms – before telling him to think and feel exactly as he normally would. Kurt had sobbed in relief as his mind rearranged itself back into its ordinary state, and hadn't even tried to push Dave away when he pressed painfully hard kisses against Kurt's lips. After that, Dave had always been more careful with his wording, generally limiting himself to controlling Kurt's actions instead of his emotions.

The ever-present 'enjoy this' is the exception to the rule.

Dave pulls back and reaches down to cradle Kurt's cheek, tilting his face up so that Kurt has to look at him. The larger boy hisses in a quick breath when their eyes meet, hand tightening on Kurt's face. Dave looks enraptured, his slightly rounded face flushed and a sweet smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His thumb strokes over Kurt's cheek.

"Kiss me," he says. Kurt's body responds before he can even think.

And no matter how much this happens, it feels like a betrayal every time. Because Dave has never given him a choice, but it's still Kurt who leans up and presses their lips together. It is Kurt who initiates the contact, however much it makes his skin crawl. And if he were stronger, or smarter, or _better_... maybe he could find a way to stop it.

Groaning against his lips, Dave's hand shifts from his cheek to the back of his neck. Holding him in place while he opens Kurt's mouth with his own and slides his tongue inside. It's an intrusion inside Kurt's mouth, wet and needy, taking what Kurt has never offered. Dave's fingers tighten in his hair, and Kurt can't stop the small noise he makes into Dave's mouth.

"_Fuck_, Kurt, you're so gorgeous," murmurs Dave, pulling back and pressing a kiss on Kurt's cheek, his jaw, the tiny bit of pale neck revealed by his uniform. "Have to see you... let me undress you, kay..."

He reaches down and begins to unbutton Kurt's blazer, thick fingers clumsy around the buttons. Every instinct in Kurt's mind is screaming at him to pull away, to cross his arms across his chest. Instead, he stands stock-still as Dave peels off his school jacket and loosens his tie, pulling it over Kurt's head in a rush. Dave intermittently leans forward to kiss him, murmuring sickly sweet words against his lips. Beautiful. Pretty. Mine.

When Dave gets to his button-up, every inch of pale skin revealed feels like a violation.

"Do your pants, babe," says Dave, once his shirt falls to the floor in a crumpled pile of white fabric. Cold air stings Kurt's naked chest, and the way Dave looks at him as he begins to unbutton his own blazer...

His expression is so loving that it makes Kurt feel physically ill.

The larger boy takes off his own clothes as Kurt slides off his shoes, his socks. As he unbuttons his trousers and lets them fall to the ground. The whole time, Dave holds his gaze; eyes full of frightening intensity and conviction as they undress. It's only when Kurt reaches down to slide off his underwear that Dave's eyes finally leave his face.

"Fuck..." Dave whispers, standing broad and thick and exposed in front of him. Kurt's eyes dark down to Dave's cock, thick and flushed and completely hard as it juts out from his body. He looks up at Dave's eyes, dark with lust, which are fixed on Kurt's exposed cock.

It's completely flaccid.

The larger boy steps forward and trails a large hand down Kurt's pale, narrow chest. Dave bites his lip, a hint of frustrated guilt furrowing his eyebrows, and a rush of panicked _dread _wells up in Kurt's chest. The movement slightly frantic, Kurt reaches down and covers Dave's hand in his own.

"David." His own voice sounds high in the stillness of the room. "David, please, you don't have to –"

"Shhh," says Dave. "Shh, Kurt, it's okay. You're going to let me take care of you. And you're going to enjoy it."

The change is instantaneous. Kurt chokes out a half-cry as he feels his mind fog with sudden desire, the world around him fading out of focus before quickly settling back in again. But warmer, softer. Everything is so different, all of a sudden. He can _feel _his mind rearranging, blocking, changing thought patterns and sensory perception until his head is clogged with _want _and _need_ and _God, Dave_ and he can't remember why he didn't want this in the first place.

"_Fuck_," Kurt exhales, body feeling suddenly flushed. His cock hardens rapidly when Dave reaches down and strokes it, confident and in control. Kurt mewls at the sudden sensation, reaching his arms up around Dave's neck to support himself as the larger boy begins to jack him off. Every twist of his wrist sends sparks of electricity up Kurt's spine, makes pleasure twist through him. Raw and real and _so much._

_You don't want this._

"God, you're beautiful like this," Dave hums against his skin, squeezing Kurt's cock in the most delicious way as he moves his hand over it. "All mine, Kurt, yeah?"

Kurt can't speak, can only groan and buck his hips into Dave's hand and cling to him for support through the pleasure.

_You hate this, you fucking whore. _

"Go lie down on the bed, Kurt," says Dave, pulling away and leaving Kurt panting. "I want to try something now."

"Okay," Kurt chokes out, obediently turning and going over to sit on the edge Dave's bed before pushing himself back into a lying position, cock hard and throbbing with the need to be touched. Dave follows him there, climbing onto the end of the bed and kneeling between Kurt's legs. He catches Kurt's eyes, licks his lips – before leaning down to take Kurt's cock into his mouth.

Kurt lets out a choked gasp, one hand flying up to cover his face and the other tangling into the bedsheets. His legs fall open of their own accord at the warm slide of Dave's mouth, wet and hot and _amazing _as it moves over his cock. Gentle hands come up to grip Kurt's hips, stopping him from thrusting wantonly up into the sensation. And all the while Kurt can feel Dave bobbing up and down, tongue sliding along the underside and swirling over the head in a way that makes Kurt groan out loud.

But even through the haze of delirious pleasure, something (_you don't want this_) is niggling at the back of Kurt's mind. Because there is nothing new about this. Dave loves the power of being able to take Kurt apart with pleasure, of making Kurt feel so good he can barely speak. And giving Kurt head is one of his favourite methods.

_Fucking slut, spreading your legs like this. _

When Dave's mouth comes away with a wet little _pop_, lips swollen and a streak of saliva running down his chin, it makes Kurt whine at the absence. Gently, Dave pulls at Kurt's hips to guide him into flipping onto his knees. Kurt does so immediately, ass in the air and entrance exposed. He thinks he knows what to expect – but when Kurt reaches a hand out to the bedside table for the small container of lube, Dave slaps his hand away.

Instead, Dave grips his ass and spreads his cheeks – and a wet, determined tongue slides around the puckered skin of Kurt's entrance.

The shock of the sensation is enough to make Kurt shout out loud. It jolts him out of his haze of want and desperate desire to think _oh god, he's never done this; never wanted this from me. I hate it, I hate it, don't want his tongue like that oh god, make it stop make it stop make it stop –_

– before the fog settles over his mind again. He arches up into the touch, groaning like a whore and fisting his hands in the bedsheets. The saliva is beginning to grow cold in the air, so sensitive. Dave chuckles behind him.

"Thought you might like this," says Dave, sounding slightly out of breath, before spreading Kurt's cheeks wide and licking a stripe along Kurt's hole. Kurt hears himself moan high and clear into the room.

When Dave's tongue actually _pushes into him_, past the ring of muscle and into Kurt's body, it's such a violation that Kurt's throat grows thick and his eyes begin to sting despite how good he's being forced to feel. His body wants to thrust back into the delicious wetness of Dave's tongue, but disgust and self-hatred are dancing at the edges of his mind. This had never been something he wanted to try, even if he got a proper boyfriend. The idea had always been so repulsive, so unthinkable to him that it had made him wrinkle his nose and shake his head in disdain.

Instead, Kurt's arms give out with the pleasure of it; he buries his burning face into his arms, ass in the air. His pretty cries and moans echo in the room as he arches up into the sensation of Dave's tongue moving inside of him. Pushing and sliding, a wriggling wetness where it doesn't belong.

_Make him stop make him stop make him stop..._

Eventually, Dave pulls away. When his tongue slips out, it makes Kurt groan for reasons he can't fully understand. Dave slides his tongue once more over him before sitting back on his heels and wiping a hand at his mouth.

"God, that's a weird angle." He slides a broad hand along Kurt's back, trying to be reassuring. "You enjoy that, Kurt?"

_No._

"Yeah," gasps Kurt, head still buried in his arms. His breath grows even more hot and ragged when he feels Dave reach over to grab the container of lube. Kurt hears a bottle uncap, a squeeze of liquid onto skin – and fingers, two at least, press at his entrance. Blunt and demanding, an unimaginable intrusion pressing inside. His mind wants to clench, to get them _out _– but his body welcomes them in. Pushing back onto the pressure as they forcefully slide inside.

"God, you were made for this," groans Dave, his fingers pushing against the resistance of his body until they're completely inside. "You love it, don't you? You love it when I shove my fingers into you. Feels so good, doesn't it Kurt."

As if for emphasis, Dave crooks his fingers and begins to rock them gently. Kurt sobs in pleasure, real tears gathering at his eyes and falling onto the sheets below. Slowly, Dave begins to slide the fingers in and out, Kurt's body catching and dragging at them as they move inside of him. And, god, the pleasure's almost too much – too intense, and Kurt _needs_ Dave to touch his cock. Needs to come so badly it _aches._

"Tell me how good it feels," Dave grunts, and by the way his voice is ragged and worn Kurt knows he must be touching himself as well.

"So good, Dave, p-please..." Kurt hears himself say in a choked voice.

Dave slides another slick finger in alongside the others. Kurt _wails_. It's impossible, how good it all feels. The fingers are stretching him out, and it _hurts_, and all his body wants is _more_.

_You're disgusting. _

The fingers, now trembling, slide out – but the emptiness doesn't last long. After only a few moments, there's a blunter pressure there instead. Dave's cock, slick with lube, pressing against him.

He pushes inside, and it's _too much_. Splitting him apart as Dave slides slowly in, gripping his hips tight to hold him in place. It hurts, but his brain turns the pain into pleasure that makes him try to push back. To bring Dave in faster, harder. But the hands hold him firm, and Dave moves at his own pace until finally – _finally _– he's completely inside. Kurt feels so full, full to the brim. Stretched out around Dave's cock and it's _unbelievable_.

"Tell me," commands Dave, and he begins to set up a hard rhythm. Gripping Kurt's hips and choosing the pace, and Kurt can only get what Dave chooses to give him. Taking what he wants from Kurt's body. Taking, taking, taking.

"_Fuck_," hisses Kurt, burying his face and clenching his hands in the sheets as Dave's cock slides in and out. Hard, and fast, and _too much. _"It's so much, Dave and so b-big inside me. So _full_, Jesus _Christ_, Dave –"

"No," says Dave, voice sounding strangled and panting hard. He takes one hand off Kurt's hip and reaches around to stroke Kurt's cock in time with his thrusts. Pleasure flashes even brighter behind Kurt's eyelids, sparking up his spine. Making his toes curl and a whine grow in his throat. "Tell me... tell me that you l-love me."

His thrusts are growing harder now, faster, and Kurt can barely _think_. There's a voice in the back of his mind recoiling in disgust, but he can't remember why when everything feels so _good._

"I love you," Kurt manages. Dave pounds into him a few more times before _slamming _in and stilling, choking to stifle a shout as he comes, and Kurt can feel something hot and wet inside. He whimpers pathetically as Dave shudders through his orgasm, himself still hard and unsatisfied, leaning back onto Dave's softening cock and making the other boy inhale sharply.

Dave shudders one last time before pulling out sharply. A whine begins to build up in Kurt's throat, but almost immediately Dave replaces his cock with at least three fingers and shoves them into his body with such force the breath is knocked out of Kurt's lungs. Dave's other hand starts moving again on Kurt's cock, squeezing tight and jerking incredibly fast as the fingers pump inside. Ruthless, and hard, and liquid pleasure is bursting through Kurt's body. Sparking harder and harder with every thrust to that _ohgodsogood _spot inside of him, pressing his face into the sheets and _wailing _as he comes over Dave's hand. Crying out into the room and clinging to the bed as Dave's fingers fuck him through it, wringing every last little bit of pleasure possible as he shudders and groans.

His mind blurs through the orgasm, blissed out and writhing through the very last of the shocks and loving every touch and stroke and thrust.

And all at once, the fog lifts from Kurt's mind.

He hears himself, moaning like a whore and sobbing into the night, but the pleasure is only an empty echo of what it was before. The fingers inside him hurt so fucking much without the pleasure to dull the burn_, _an intrusion that his body wants to push out right this instant. All he can think about is getting them _out_, about the disgusting slickness inside of him and everything it means. His whole body hurts from staying in this position far too long, arms trembling and back sore from straining. The world is blurry, so Kurt blinks – and tears fall down his cheeks.

The fingers slide out slowly and carefully, but all Kurt can manage is a hiss of pain. He feels empty. Empty and used, like something you own. Everything – every suppressed emotion, every bit of pain his mind converted to pleasure, every self-hating thought and wave of disgust – come flooding up to the surface at once. Kurt can't help but gasp, too, at the sudden hatred that flares up inside of him; burning and sickened and choking him with its ferocity.

Not for Dave, though; for himself. For letting himself be used, and violated, and so easily broken.

Kurt lets out a tiny choke, and all at once Dave is scooping him up into his arms. Holding Kurt in his lap like a doll, making gentle sweet noises and stroking a hand through Kurt's sweat-soaked hair. Kurt buries his face in Dave's neck and breathes. In and out. In and out.

_Don't let him see you cry._

"It's okay, babe, you did so well." Dave presses a kiss to Kurt's forehead. Gentle and caring, and everything about this is just so wrong. "My Kurt."

Kurt breathes, and shakes, and hates his body for doing this to him. For betraying him like this, like always, when he needs the most to be strong and sure. He hates Dave, hates himself, hates his mind for making him_ enjoy_ this.

For enjoying his own _rape_, Jesus Christ.

There is nothing safe about being curled up in the arms of Dave Karofsky, but it's the best that he's going to get. Kurt is exhausted, and furious, and hates himself so much it makes his stomach roil.

Absurdly, his last thought as he drifts to sleep is one of gratitude. Gratitude that, even as Dave forces his body to respond, this is another day where he hasn't done what Kurt's been terrified of all along. Because at the very least, telling Kurt to enjoy what they do together is temporary. Short-term. He can be himself, after Dave finishes with him for the night.

But if Dave orders Kurt to fall in love with him...

_He'll never let me go._

Feeling sore and filthy and defeated, Kurt closes his eyes as Dave strokes his hair and whispers kind words into his ear.

He falls into an uneasy sleep, Dave's arms wrap around him like a cage.


	3. Chapter 3

The room the Warbler Council uses to meet is as proudly antiquated as any other classroom at Dalton. The wood paneling along the walls is handsome and dark, but the soft light streaming in through the quietly expensive sheer curtains never allows it to overpower the room. Instead, it serves to highlight other details. The handsomely-bound books that line the shelves, the intricate molding along the fireplace. The many brown leather couches, all well-stuffed and comfortable, that have grown well-worn over many years' worth of use. It is a serene space, designed to encourage quiet contemplation and the creation beautiful music.

The room itself is currently in complete contrast with the argument taking place within its walls.

"I just think we have to consider our _image_," insists Thad, throwing his hands up into the air in obvious frustration. "A change in uniform design this close to the competition makes us look frantic, as though we have something to prove."

"Well, excuse _us _if we want to try something a little more professional," spits Nick, and the room bursts into furious titters. Wes bangs his gavel loudly several times over.

"Order, gentlemen," Wes insists sternly, but it only takes a few moments before the whole room is bursting at the seams once more.

Blaine, perched on one of the couches in the back-most corner of the room, reaches a hand up to rub unobtrusively at his temple. He can feel a tension headache building. The argument over what to wear to Regionals continues to swirl around him like a whirlwind, but for once Blaine simply cannot manage to get engaged. He knows that the uniform question is an important one: every tiny detail is crucial to how the audience will perceive you, after all, and should be paid its due amount of attention.

But somehow, the debate seems... _pettier _than normal. Needlessly long and drawn-out. Blaine finds himself surreptitiously reaching into his pocket to pull out his phone and check the time practically every other minute, and it's taking all of his willpower to stop himself from letting out an impatient sigh. He never would, of course. It's an honour, being chosen to sing the lead on so many of the choir's songs when he's not even a senior, and any sign of lack of interest would be a grave insult.

Despite everything, all Blaine can think about is how much he wants the meeting to finish so he can join Kurt in the library for one of their twice-weekly meetings.

_Don't go there, Anderson, _a voice cautions him in the back of his head. Blaine has to admit, it has a point. He stealthily slides his phone from his pocket, presses the button on the side – and has to restrain himself from groaning out loud at the fact that only a three minutes have passed since his last check. Next to him, Nick is getting extremely riled up about something involving blue piping.

When Kurt had first joined the Warblers at the beginning of the semester, he and Blaine had hit it off almost immediately. Kurt was tremendously... _enthusiastic_, yes, and his preferred styles of music didn't tend to match up with the Warbler's usual repertoire. It was readily apparent, too, that Kurt was used to a very different glee club environment at his old school. But he was friendly and keen had an _amazing _voice, and Blaine had been happy to give him a few pointers about how to properly sing acapella. Kurt had adjusted quickly enough, and Blaine had found a new friend.

The speed at which their friendship had progressed was astonishing in hindsight. It had seemed as though they could talk for hours without ever running out of things to say, and off-campus coffee shop excursions quickly became a regular occurrence. Kurt had needed a friend who understood what he was going through after the bullying debacle at his old school, and Blaine... Blaine had needed a friend he could talk to at all. Wes and David were incredible people, but they were both fairly involved with friends from their hometowns. Surface-based friends, to casually hang out with and sing beside but never truly _let in_.

And if Kurt ever stared at him a little too longingly, or sat a little too straight in his chair, or responded strangely to things Blaine said... well. It was a small price to have someone to really talk to.

And quicker than Blaine had thought possible, Kurt Hummel had become the most important person to him at Dalton.

Things had changed, though, with Kurt's family crisis.

Suddenly, Kurt had claimed he had work to do and insisted on curtailing their coffee hangouts. Blaine had almost protested – but the tired, fragile set of Kurt's face had killed the question before it ever left his lips. In and of itself, that would have been acceptable: Dalton had a challenging curriculum, and many new students were unaccustomed to the heavy work load. But after a week of only seeing Kurt in Warbler practice, the slender boy had started skipping rehearsals. Just a few, at first – but soon enough, he was missing them every other day. And then _most _days.

Before long, Kurt simply stopped coming altogether.

Of course, Blaine had asked him about it. Had learned about his schedule from Thad, who was in most of Kurt's classes, and cornered him after his French lecture one day. Kurt was his _friend_, after all, and if Blaine could help it was important for Kurt to know he would be there for him. Kurt had stepped out of his class with an armful of books and was met with the sight of Blaine Anderson leaning against the corridor wall, an encouraging smile on his face and a speech half-prepared already.

To Blaine's surprise, Kurt had gone pale as a sheet. Had rebuffed any of Blaine's insistence that he could help Kurt with his schoolwork if it meant Kurt could come back to glee club again – before grabbing Blaine's hand, eyes darting around the bustling hallway, and _pulling _Blaine into an empty classroom. And when he explained – about the family emergency, about not having time for clubs or coffee dates anymore – Blaine understood. Because he still remembered Kurt telling him about his father's heart attack earlier in the year; he could put two and two together.

But when Blaine had tried to comfort him, Kurt had stilled. Tensed and shook his head, staring down at the ground. And Blaine had realized that this was Kurt _coping_. Cutting people out. Harder, sharper. Turning into himself. It wasn't the Kurt Blaine had come to know, but... it had made Blaine realize there was more to Kurt Hummel than met the eye. The change in attitude made Blaine want to know more about him, not drift away. To help, if he could.

When Kurt had offered the chance to meet him in private one of two times a week during his free period, Blaine had practically leapt at the chance.

Suddenly Wes's voice, hard and authoritative, cuts into Blaine's train of thought.

"Warbler Blaine, what is your opinion on this matter?"

Blaine blinks out of his reverie, eyes darting quickly around the room. Every single person in the room appears to be hanging on his next words; some even seem to be crossing their fingers.

"Oh, I agree with Nick one hundred per cent," Blaine enthuses, attempting to sound entirely earnest and convicted. Next to him, Nick lets out a tiny whoop of joy. Wes's brow furrows, and Blaine frantically tries to remember what they were talking about.

"Well," hums Wes. "In _that _case..." And within another minute, the entire room is thoroughly embroiled in conversation again. Blaine works hard on keeping a big grin on his face while simultaneously nodding as interestedly as possible. He sits up straight, hands on his knees, and tries to look attentive. Butit only takes a few minutes before his concentration begins to droop; before his mind begins to wander to the time, and how quickly he can get out of here and find Kurt.

Kurt, who is still himself – but somehow... different. Quiet and tentative, almost mysterious. A complex puzzle waiting for Blaine to put him together. And Blaine knows that if he keeps trying, keeps patiently waiting, that Kurt will open up to him. It's only a matter of time.

And if Blaine is completely honest with himself...

He knows that when he falls, he falls _hard_. Jeremiah was not an isolated incident; once someone has Blaine's attention, it doesn't take long before they are everything he can see. And lately, all Blaine can think about is Kurt. The fact that even though he barely smiles when Blaine sees him in the hallway, when they're alone together Blaine can almost always coax one onto his face. The way he playfully pokes fun at Blaine's musical taste, the way Blaine can sometimes get him to laugh in that head-back, mouth-open way he's always trying to avoid. His eyes. _God_, his eyes. So blue it's sometimes like a punch to Blaine's stomach, heavily lashed and completely gorgeous. The curve of his neck; the flatness of his stomach beneath the unflattering Dalton blazer. His hands, so soft that Blaine sometimes can't stop himself from touching them...

If Blaine is completely honest with himself, he is falling for Kurt Hummel. And _maybe_... maybe Kurt just might like him right back.

_Stop that_, he chastises himself. _Kurt is vulnerable right now, you know that. The last thing he needs is you ruining his support system. What Kurt _needs _right now is a friend, not someone taking advantage of his situation. Let him be. Let him come to you._

"Meeting adjourned," declares Wes with a bang of his gavel, and the words register properly with Blaine for the first time in the past half-hour. Blaine's bag is on his shoulder and he's heading out the door before any of his fellow Warblers have even managed to get to their feet. Blaine sends a hopefully-dazzling smile at Wes as he rushes out the door, which Wes returns with a knowing raise of his eyebrows.

Almost snorting with laughter, Blaine quickly heads out the door toward the library. He generally arrives before Kurt, it's true, but the quick pace is just to be sure. He and Kurt only get to spend perhaps an hour and a half a week together, and Blaine doesn't want to waste a minute of it. He's so caught up in his flurry of excitement, in fact, that he charges right into a large, broad figure when he turns the corner.

"Woah!" cries the other boy, steadying Blaine with his hands. "Easy there, tiger."

Blaine blinks up at him, smiling bashfully. "Sorry about that, man."

"No worries," says Dave Karofsky cheerfully, giving him a pat on the shoulder before continuing down the hallway. Blaine is careful to watch where he's going after that, lest running into someone else might actually make him late. Dodging and weaving between the many individual fish in a navy blue sea.

The thing is, though, that it's getting harder and harder for Blaine to hold back when it comes to Kurt. He's a decisive person – a trait his father attempted to drill into him since childhood. Knowing that he wants Kurt and not doing anything about it... well. It's difficult. The need to tell Kurt how he feels, to make a bold move and _know for sure_ has grown to a near-constant itch beneath his skin. Sitting back and waiting has never been his forte.

_Be a good friend, Blaine_, he reiterates, before continuing down the hall.

* * *

><p>Despite the delay, Blaine still manages to get to the library with enough time to grab their usual study room, spread a few of his things out on the table, and begin leafing through his law textbook before Kurt arrives. He does have a midterm next week, after all. Even if he does find himself looking up hopefully at the door every thirty seconds or so, hoping for a glimpse of bright blue eyes or a pale length of neck. A few long minutes pass, and Blaine is on the brink of actually getting engaged with his chapter ('<em>Statues of Limitations and their International<em> _Variance'_) when the door slowly edges open.

And when Kurt steps inside and sends him a tentative smile, something warm and pleasant twists in the bottom of Blaine's stomach.

"Hey, Kurt," says Blaine, and he can feel his mouth pulling into an uncontrollable grin at the sight of the slender boy. He probably looks like an idiot, but he can't quite find it in himself to care.

"Why, hello there," Kurt responds, hooking the strap of his book bag over the back of the empty chair beside Blaine before lowering himself down into it. Once seated, he props up an elbow on the table and rests his head in his hand. The movement helps a few strands of his soft-looking brown hair to escape from his understated hairdo; they fall across his cheek and stay there, unnoticed. Blaine wants nothing more than to reach out and push them behind Kurt's ear.

"How was your test?" asks Blaine, bookmarking and closing his law book for later consideration. Ostensibly, these meetings are supposed to be study sessions. Somehow, though, the two of them seem to consume their entire free block without reading a single paragraph. Kurt blinks at him without any comprehension, and after a moment Blaine elaborates. "Your French midterm? You said it was today, and you always have French before you come here..."

"Oh. Yes, it was today." There's a note of surprise in Kurt's voice that Blaine doesn't quite understand. "It just finished up. Sorry, I... I didn't think you'd remember I told you that."

"Of course I remember, Kurt. You were worried about it." Blaine remembers everything Kurt tells him. "How did it go?"

"Well, I think. I definitely aced the oral and reading comprehension portions. The written was a bit trickier, but I think I did pretty well." The slender boy shrugs, but Blaine knows from their old coffee dates just how much doing well in school means to him.

"That's awesome!" says Blaine, and he reaches into his bag to pull out the 'surprise' he had angsted over bringing this morning. It had taken him ten whole minutes to convince himself to slip it into his bag. "I thought you'd say that, so I brought this to celebrate. Just... hide it if the librarian comes by to check on us, yeah?"

Friends bring each other presents all the time, so bringing along a large bar of ever-so-decadent-and-slightly-too-expensive chocolate is a completely legitimate thing to do. Dark chocolate is Kurt's favourite; he told Blaine once, in a conversation about Elizabeth Hummel teaching her son to bake as a child. Plus, Kurt's cheeks have been getting gaunter and gaunter every time they meet. It makes Blaine worried, and fretful, and want to sit Kurt down in front of a large slab of cake and tell him to eat. Hopefully this method is slightly more subtle.

Kurt's delicate eyebrows fly up into his hairline. He opens his mouth for a moment as if to speak, catches Blaine's eye – before closing it again. He lets out a small laugh instead, reaching forward to take the bar from Blaine's hand. Their fingers brush for the briefest of moments.

"Organic Fair-Trade dark chocolate. I must say, I'm impressed." Kurt sends him a small, happy smile. "Thank you," he says, and there is almost something sad about how earnest he sounds.

Swallowing nervously, Blaine suppresses the urge to run a hand through his hair. The strands are gelled back in the way he usually styles it for school, anyways. And it would make him look as though the gesture means more than it should.

"It's nothing," he mutters, feeling caught off-guard. There is electrical energy tingling in the tips of Blaine's fingers, making them twitch and stutter on the tabletop. The way Kurt looks at him, sometimes... it's as though Blaine is the only person in the world who matters.

He gives himself a little mental shake as Kurt carefully unwraps the dark green wrapper, peeling the corners away slowly so that they don't tear. His long fingers gently unfold the aluminum foil, leaving the bar exposed. Kurt breaks off two tiny pieces, keeping one for himself and handing one to Blaine.

"You let it melt," he explains. "Don't bite down."

Mimicking Kurt, Blaine places the small piece of chocolate on his tongue and closes his mouth. The taste is strong; almost bitter, with a slight hint of fruitiness that plays at the edges of Blaine's tongue. Dark chocolate isn't Blaine's favourite: he prefers the simple creaminess of milk chocolate, sweet and uncomplicated in its flavour.

But Kurt's eyes flutter closed in delight as the chocolate melts over his tongue, so Blaine supposes he must have made a good choice. He takes the opportunity to guiltily memorize the way Kurt's face looks like this; eyes gently shut, with a look of contented pleasure on his face. Kurt barely ever looks relaxed like this anymore.

It takes almost a minute before the chocolate is fully dissolved, and Blaine finally allows himself to swallow when he sees Kurt do so first.

"Mm," murmurs Kurt, opening his eyes and sending a smile in Blaine's direction. "_Very _good choice, Mr. Anderson." There is something almost cat-like in the way Kurt is holding himself; contented and sated, practically purring with pleasure. He tilts his head to one side. "How are you doing, by the way? You never said."

"I'm fine," says Blaine, trying not to stare at Kurt's lips. There is a small smudge of chocolate streaked across the soft pink. "I had a Warblers meeting just now, but I kinda have no idea what we were talking about."

At that, Kurt laughs. "Blaine! Aren't you the one who told me how important all those little details are? You used to say how crucial it was to concen—"

Blaine doesn't consciously think about what he's doing. Before he even knows what is happening, he reaches forward, cradles Kurt's cheek in his hand, and cuts off the rest of Kurt's sentence with a firm but gentle kiss. Excited sparks are going off in the base of Blaine's stomach, and he closes his eyes at how _good _Kurt's lips feel pressed against his. Soft and warm and quietly masculine, just like he's been imagining for weeks now. Kurt makes a small noise against his lips, so Blaine leans in and holds him tight. The skin of Kurt's cheek is soft beneath his palm, and every tiny movement of his lips against Blaine's is just too good to bear. It's incredible, and wonderful, and _perfect_.

He tastes like chocolate, bitter and dark.

When Blaine finally pulls away, heart pounding in his chest, he nervously peers up into Kurt's face. Expecting to see surprise, or pleasure, or maybe even embarrassment. Instead, the look on Kurt's face makes his heart plummet into his shoes. There is an expression of absolute _horror _on his beautiful face. Dismay and disappointment, and even a hint of... fear?

"Kurt," says Blaine, feeling confused and wrong-footed. "Kurt, what's wrong?"

"I can't," chokes Kurt, and guilt hits Blaine square in the chest when he realizes that there are _tears_ welling up in Kurt's eyes. The slender boy is beginning to shake. "I can't, I just... I have to go."

"What? You don't have to... Kurt, please," entreats Blaine as Kurt scrambles to grab his bag. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to... I mean, I don't know why I – Kurt!"

But with one last desperate look over his shoulder, Kurt is gone. Practically running out of the room and slamming the door behind him at a volume far too loud for the silence of the library. Leaving Blaine alone with his books spread out before him on the table. An almost-untouched bar of chocolate still laid out on the table like an accusation.

"Fuck," says Blaine weakly to the empty room, the word echoing dully off the walls.

* * *

><p>"I am such an <em>idiot<em>," Blaine groans pathetically, slumping forward in Wes's computer chair with his head in his hands.

Next to him, Wes sits propped up against a pillow on his own bed. He sits, cross-legged and stiff, with a laptop on the sheets in front of him. Both his posture and expression speak of someone whose patience has been tried far too many times to count. Wes makes a confirmatory noise in response.

"Yep," says Wes distractedly, eyes firmly fixed on the computer screen in front of him. "Sure sounds like."

After the complete disaster that was Blaine's meeting with Kurt, Blaine had stumbled to Physics with twenty minutes to spare with a look of dull shock burned onto his face. He'd barely managed to sit through the entirety of the class, tuning out every one of Ms. Dunning's words, before rushing out of the classroom and over to Wes's residence building as quickly as possible.

While Wes isn't the most sympathetic person Blaine knows, he has the duel appeal of: a) always telling it like it is; and, b) having seen Blaine in situations that very nearly rival this one in terms of soul-destroying embarrassment. Like the Jeremiah Gap Serenade Incident, for example.

Blaine lets out a small wretched noise, and moves to run his hands through his hair. Unfortunately, as it is currently gelled to within an inch of its life, all he manages to do is mangle the style. He gives up after a moment of trying to shove his hands through anyways, letting his hands fall down to his sides.

"I can't believe I did that," says Blaine, dumbfounded and furious with himself. "Kurt's had such a hard time of it lately, and he trusted me to be there for him. He trusted me to help, and _what _did I do? I had to go and make everything confusing and awful for him and – and, god, I_ suck_."

Wes nods, reaching over to grab his can of Dr. Pepper from the bedside table. He takes a long sip.

Inside, Blaine is roiling. Humiliation and self-hatred are twisting in his gut like poison, and he's practically choking on how _stupid _he feels. He had known that all Kurt needed was a friend; had emphasized the point to himself a million times over the past few weeks. But the way Kurt had looked, soft-eyed and with a tiny smear of chocolate on his lip... it had been the most incredibly inviting sight Blaine could imagine. Now, all of it is ruined; their easy friendship, their library meetings, the hope of _when all this is over maybe he'll want me._

And all because some stupid part of him had thought that some completely innocent conversation had been the _perfect moment_.

"It's just – " begins Blaine, before cutting himself off. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and glances up at the room around him. Wes's dorm is nice, constantly neat and tidy, and – best of all – a single room. There are only a couple of posters adorning the walls; one mocking various economic models with the visual aid of cows, the other a full-length depiction of John Maynard Keynes.

"It's just that Kurt means so much to me," Blaine starts again quietly, the words full of calm conviction. He stares determinedly ahead as he speaks. "I don't even know when it happened, but... since Kurt came to Dalton, he's become my best friend here. I've told him things... things I've never told anyone else before. He's funny, and smart, and so much fun to be with..." Blaine laughs softly. "... even if he pokes fun at me sometimes, you know? I just... I really like him. A lot."

Blaine shakes his head, sighing heavily. "And I don't know what on earth possessed me to mess up what we have like that. It was probably the worst thing I could've done, wasn't it?"

"Mmmhmm," says Wes. "Completely uncalled for. Pretty much a total douchebag move."

"Oh, god," exclaims Blaine dully, eyes blown wide as a new horror dawns. "I took total advantage of him, didn't I? He's vulnerable and hurting, and I had to go and _kiss_ him."

"... basically, yeah."

'Oh, _god_." Blaine buries his face in his hands again, cheeks burning and feeling like the biggest jerk in the world.

Wes lets out a heavy sigh and closes his laptop with a soft _click_, moving it aside. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, leans forward, and pokes Blaine once on the knee. It gets Blaine's attention; Wes's fingers may be long and thin, but it's jabbed in with plenty of force.

"Ow," says Blaine pitifully, despite the fact that it didn't actually hurt.

"Hey," says Wes, ignoring him. "You haven't screwed everything up, okay? So stop acting like you have."

"...I haven't?"

"No." Wes gives him a little half-smile. "I know it can feel that way, though. Jessica says I can be blunt sometimes; when I hurt her feelings, I feel like the worst person in existence. But you can make it better."

Blaine stifles a grin at the mention of Wes's girlfriend. Jessica, almost comically tiny at all of five foot nothing, is probably one of his favourite people. Sweet and loving but with a no-nonsense attitude, whenever Jessica comes to visit the school for a few days she does so in a mighty swoop of bright red hair and tiptoed hugs for all of the boys. Blaine rather suspects that Wes has learned the ability to crook an eyebrow in a fashion that perfectly straddles _exasperated_ and _affectionate _from her.

"Okay," exhales Blaine. "What do I do?"

"Well," says Wes. "For starters, you should find him and apologize."

"Okay. And then?"

Wes shrugs. "Say that you're really sorry that you didn't think about him, or how his family crisis would be affecting how he's doing right now. Say that you can be there for him as a friend, that he doesn't have to worry about your relationship on top of everything else. And then I'd say you should see how that family situation is going; any new developments, or whatever." Wes pause, wrinkling his nose. "Actually, Blaine... what _is _Kurt's family emergency?"

"I..." trails Blaine, furrowing his brow. "You know, he never actually said. I kinda assumed it had something to do with his dad's health, but... I don't know for sure."

"That's a bit odd," says Wes slowly, tilting his head to one side. "I mean, you used to talk about how you two told each other everything."

"We did," says Blaine dully, looking down at the floor. "Or at least... I thought we did."

Wes shakes his head. "I know Kurt, too. And when he was in the Warblers with us, that boy was _dedicated_. He didn't miss a single rehearsal for the first few months, and he tried harder than anyone to stand out and do well. I can't believe he would drop us for anything less than serious business." He pokes Blaine in the knee again. "You need to talk to him. Apologize for what happened today and offer to really be there for him with whatever's going on right now. He probably just didn't want to burden you with everything before."

"It would never be a burden," says Blaine immediately, looking up into Wes's eyes for the first time during the conversation. The other boy's brown eyes are warm, to his surprise. Quietly affectionate, despite his still-rigid posture.

Sometimes, Blaine forgets that Wes actually does truly care for his friends.

A reluctant smile steals across Wes's face, and he gives Blaine am encouraging pat on the shoulder. "Just go talk to him, yeah? Figure stuff out between you two. And stop looking like kicked puppy, okay?"

Blaine laughs out loud, feeling some of the tension leave him. Of course it will be okay. He and Kurt have been friends for months; something stupid like a kiss isn't going to ruin that.

"I'll try," says Blaine, sending Wes a grateful look before rising to his feet.

"You're going to go now?" asks Wes in surprise, raising an eyebrow. He glances at the clock. It reads 3:32pm in softly-glowing red numbers.

"Kurt'll be back from class by now, and there's no time like the present," says Blaine, sounding bolder than he feels. "I don't want him to stew on this. To think he has to start acting differently around me, or anything. I... I want him to know that we can still be friends, however I might feel. That I'll still be there for him."

Blaine takes a deep breath and lets it out, straightening his hair as best he can and smoothing out any wrinkles in his uniform. When he's as presentable as he's going to get, he heads determinedly for the door.

"Wish me luck!" he exclaims, and heads off toward Kurt's residence building.

* * *

><p>Walking between Tower Residence – where both Wes and Blaine's dorm rooms are – and the Milward-Hopkins Building where Kurt lives only takes about five minutes in total. Dalton's campus isn't very large, and the number of students who attend is tiny in comparison to some of the public high schools in nearby towns. It isn't until the door of Kurt's building is within eyeshot, however, that Blaine remembers the fact that the Milward-Hopkins building doesn't have an intercom system.<p>

Reluctantly, Blaine pulls his smartphone out of his blazer pocket and begins to type out a text: _Hey, Kurt. I'm outside your building right now, and we really need to talk. Come let me in? –Blaine. _His finger is just hovering over the green 'send' button when Blaine hears his own name being called out.

"Blaine!" comes the voice again. Blaine turns to see Jeff Jones waving at him, a heavy book bag slung over his shoulder and his mop of dirty blonde hair ruffling in the wind. He's carrying a large poster board, obviously a project having been handed back. As he gets closer, Blaine can make out the teacher's writing in neat red pen: _Good effort, need to stay on topic. B+_

"Hey, Jeff!" says Blaine, trying to sound enthusiastic. Jeff is a great guy; a wonderful sportsman and a valuable Warbler, if a bit ridiculous occasionally. Now that Blaine has decided to confront Kurt about the kiss, however, any distraction is an unwelcome one. Even as he speaks the words, inside his mind Blaine is rehearsing and rehashing exactly what he's going to say to Kurt in a few minutes' time. Trying to prepare for it as he would a solo.

"What brings you to this neck of the woods?" asks Jeff as he approaches, expression open and friendly.

"I'm visiting someone," says Blaine. When Jeff pulls out a set of keys from his pocket a moment later, his eyes widen. "Actually, man – would you mind letting me in?"

"Sure thing," says Jeff, and Blaine pockets his phone with the unsent text to Kurt still on its screen. Jeff fidgets with the lock for a moment – the Milward-Hopkins Building is old enough to be worn around the edges – before letting them both inside.

Blaine lets Jeff go first, and the two of them ascend the stairs in silence for a few moments. It doesn't take long, though, before the silence becomes too much for the blonde.

"Who are you visiting?" asks Jeff after a minute, glancing over his shoulder to smile at Blaine as he does so.

"Kurt," says Blaine. "Kurt Hummel, on the third floor? He was in the Warblers with us for a while; brown hair, countertenor...?"

"Oh," says Jeff, and they continue up.

But as they reach the second floor landing, Jeff turns – and Blaine realizes that his smile has become strangely fixed. False, even. A remnant of a feeling that isn't there anymore still laid out across his expression.

"I know Kurt," says Jeff, reaching up to run a hand through his already-too-messy mop of hair. He bites down on his lower lip. "He's been acting really weird lately. Actually... he's been kind of a jerk."

Unreasonable irritation floods Blaine's chest, and he feels his fingertips twitch. For a second, all he wants to do is verbally rip Jeff apart. Say _he's dealing with some things, okay? _And _you're a bit of a fair-weather friend _and _if you really knew him you wouldn't say things like that. _And _I'd rather hang out with him than you any day of the week._

Blaine blinks, surprised at the intensity of thoughts. Jeff is still standing in front of him, looking slightly awkward. There's a twist of something in his expression that Blaine isn't used to seeing; hurt.

"Kurt's a good guy," Blaine says at last, sounding stilted even to himself. "I'm sure he's just going through some stuff."

"... yeah." Jeff hesitates, then nods. "You're probably right." He gestures awkwardly toward the second floor landing entrance. "This is me."

"Cool," says Blaine, and he feels a little guilty. Jeff did let him in, after all. "Thanks – and I'll see you in practice, yeah?"

"For sure." Jeff smiles, gives a little wave, and walks through the door to his floor.

Shaking his head, Blaine turns and begins to head up the last flight of stairs to Kurt's floor. He's never been inside Kurt's room before, but in Kurt's first few weeks at Dalton he had taken Blaine up to wait outside a couple of times. Once to wait for Kurt to grab a change of tie after Thad had accidentally spilled ravioli on him at lunch, and the other time to drop off one set of books and pick up another for a study session. Blaine remembers which room is his, turning right and then heading straight until practically the very end of the hallway. Before long, he is standing right outside Kurt's door.

He is just debating whether it would be more polite to send Kurt an '_are you there_?' text message or to knock directly when he hears... _something _drift out from behind the closed door. He freezes in place, whole body tensing up, every nerve on edge as he waits for the sound to come again. But after long moments pass and he hears nothing, Blaine finally lets out the breath he's been holding in. Blaine gives himself a shake; he must have imagined it.

He's just raising his hand to knock when he hears the sound again – for sure this time. A high, clear voice drawn out in a long groan of pain. Addled and frantic and _wretched; _a voice Blaine couldn't mistake if he from inside Kurt's room.

Panic spasms in Blaine's chest. "Kurt!" he shouts, trying the doorknob with shaking hands as his heart pounds in his chest. Imagining the beautiful boy injured somehow; hurt and alone and no one to help him. The door isn't locked; it swings open easily.

"Kurt, are you –?"

It takes Blaine several long moments to fully comprehend the sight that greets him.

There are two people splayed out on the bed directly across from the door. A tangle of limbs and naked skin, twisting and clenching and straining against one another. The sight is blunt and raw, like walking into some sort of too-real porno. Both figures on the bed are male; one large and broad, the other small and slender.

_Dave Karofsky_, Blaine realizes dully as the figure on top rocks his hips forward and turns his head sideways in a groan. Recognition dawns through a haze of horrified embarrassment; they share the same first-period Math class. Dave's eyes are clenched shut, face flushed dark brown hair damp with sweat. And below him...

Below him is Kurt. Lying on the bed with his head tilted back against the headboard in obvious ecstasy, his long-fingered lands gripping the solid wooden headboard so tightly they are white around the knuckles. Eyes shut, mouth hanging open and _panting _as Dave grips his thighs and spreads his legs wide. As Dave thrusts in and out of him, leaning his whole body into the movement. Too shocked to look away at first, Blaine can actually _see_ Dave's cock pumping in and out of Kurt's body. The sight is so utterly obscene that Blaine must make some kind of choked noise, because Dave glances over in his direction – and his eyes fly wide open in shocked horror. He stops moving immediately.

_They must not have heard me calling out, _some distant part of Blaine's mind realizes. _They must not have, over the sound of... of..._

"Oh, god," chokes Blaine, quickly looking down at the floor with burning cheeks. He doesn't see Kurt's face when he realizes what happened; Blaine does, however, get to hear him. Gets to hear the desperate little _mewl _Kurt makes when Dave stops fucking him, the dazed little murmur that comes after. Gets to hear Kurt's sharp inhale of breath when he finally sees Blaine standing there in the door, all the while staring fixedly down at the wooden floors with his heart pounding in his chest.

"I'm sorry, I didn't – I shouldn't have," splutters Blaine as he backs slowly out of the room. "I thought... God, I don't know what I thought. I'm so sorry."

"Anderson!" calls out Dave, but Blaine has already shut the door and started half-running down the hallway, eyes stinging and the image of the two boys together seared onto his mind.

And the small, desperate noise he hears Kurt make as he flees down the hall is just too much. Too awful.

Blaine is leaning against the stairwell door, shaking with shock and hurt and revolted embarrassment, when Dave finds him less than a minute later. Jogging down the hall with a pair of sweatpants slung low on his hips and a white collared shirt left unbuttoned, flapping in the air as he comes toward him. Dave's face red; flushed from exertion. Blaine feels something awful twist in the base of his stomach as he remembers what from.

"Anderson, wait up," calls Dave, slowing down as he reaches the stairwell entrance.

_Kurt didn't even bother to come after me._ The thought hits with another distant pang to his chest.

They stand like that, staring at one another, for a few long moments that hang between them like an insurmountable wall. For a half-second, Blaine wants – no, _expects _– Dave to apologize to him, as though the larger boy had done anything wrong. And then –

"You won't tell anyone, will you?" blurts Dave at last, and Blaine sees at once how full of nervous tension Dave is. Fingers twitching and brown eyes full of frightened worry; but for the life of him, Blaine can't figure out _why. _His thoughts are a whirl of _shock _and _upset_, and Blaine can barely focus on Dave's words at all.

"What?" asks Blaine after a too-large pause. "About... about Kurt?" His voice breaks on the last word, but he pushes that thought down.

"No – yes, I mean –" Dave shifts awkwardly, looking around the hall and licking his lips before continuing. "You won't tell anyone that I'm – that I'm like _that_, will you?"

"Oh," says Blaine awkwardly, realization hitting. "Right. That. I mean – of course I won't, Dave. I wouldn't... I wouldn't do that to you."

The fact that Dave Karofsky is gay is the single least important thing on Blaine's mind right now, but Dave's face floods with sharp relief anyways. He lets out a huge, cathartic breath.

"Thanks, dude. I owe you one." Dave reaches forward and slaps Blaine firmly on the shoulder, practically sending him flying sideways with the force of it. All Blaine can think about is the fact that Kurt's... lover? Fuck-buddy? Just touched him. The boy who was just _touchingtakinghavingloving _Kurt just patted him on the shoulder like it was nothing. Like it didn't matter.

Dave winces. "And... sorry you had to see that, man."

Blaine manages a shrug, and before he knows what's going on Dave is jogging back down the hallway again. Shirtsleeves flapping as he goes, running back to Kurt's room. To Kurt. To finish what he and Kurt were doing before Blaine barged in like some kind of complete _moron_.

Feeling sick to his stomach and heart aching, Blaine stumbles down the stairs and out the residence hall door. He goes straight to his own dorm and shuts the door.

* * *

><p>That night, Blaine can't sleep. He lies awake instead, staring at the ceiling and listening to the sound of his roommate's snores, trying to push down the thrumming of humiliation and hurt along his skin. Wes sent him a "<em>how'd it go<em>?" text hours ago, but Blaine couldn't find it in himself to respond. He doesn't want Wes to know how badly he misjudged the situation, or the nauseating sight he walked in on.

Instead, Blaine lies in the dark and goes over everything he must have misconstrued. Every touch, every smile, every playful word Kurt flung his way. Every conversation that lasted for hours.

Because he'd thought... he'd really, really _thought_...

And Blaine can't even think about what kind of fool Kurt must think him to be without wanting to twist into the covers in humiliation. When Blaine had kissed him and he had run off, horrified... it was because he had _someone else_ the whole time. Someone he trusted more than Blaine. Someone he never told Blaine about.

An image drifts into his mind; a twist of limbs and the steady thrust of hips, a groan. And suddenly Blaine's mind is assaulted with similar-but-different images of Kurt Hummel and Dave Karofsky. Kissing and touching and twinedtogether, as explicit and obscene as the scene he walked in on today. And all of them feature Kurt with his head thrown back, the same picture of complete ecstasy on his face. He wants to curl up and hide forever in a pit of disappointment and hurt.

The imagined images burn at the corners of his mind. It takes hours for his mind to simmer into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

><p>When Blaine wakes up, he wakes up angry.<p>

As a rule, Blaine is slow to anger. Generally easygoing and friendly, it takes a lot for him to go from 'frustrated' or 'upset' to actually, properly _angry_. And in the haze of the train wreck of yesterday afternoon, something very important had slipped his mind.

As hurtful as it was to find out about Kurt being in a relationship that way, it was Kurt's decision not to tell him. And as frustrated as he is with himself, that isn't the issue.

But Blaine is almost completely sure that Dave is taking advantage of Kurt's emotional situation, and that simply isn't okay.

So later that morning, when the bell rings to signal the end of first period and Blaine's Math class begins to pack up their things and head toward the door, Blaine walks straight up to Dave Karofsky with his biggest and friendliest grin on his face and asks him if he has a minute to talk.

"Sure, man," says Dave uneasily, eyes darting from side to side as if to spot any hidden eavesdroppers.

"Awesome." Blaine's smile remains determinedly fixed in place as the few stragglers empty out, leaving the two of them alone in Room B21 for at least five minutes until people will start to trickle in for second period. Mr. Morgan, their teacher, gives them a little wave as he leaves with a stack of papers in hand – and then they are alone.

Dave's arms are crossed in front of his torso in a way that is probably meant to look casual; it gives him an air of defensiveness instead. Every few seconds the larger boy's eyes flick to the door. He looks profoundly uncomfortable.

"I just wanted to talk about last night," Blaine begins, in the tone of voice his father has referred to more than once as 'oily non-confrontational'. It is somehow incredibly satisfying when the words make Dave's eyes fly wide open.

Dave coughs uneasily, shuffling on his feet. "What about it? Anderson, you said you wouldn't tell –"

"Woah now," exclaims Blaine, raising his hands in the air in an expression of mock-surrender. "I'm not going to say anything. I understand, David; believe me when I say I do."

At this, the larger boy gives him a quick once over from head to toe. Quietly and quickly assessing his hair, his stature, his posture, his voice. Blaine knows this look; knows Dave is trying to give him the once-over and come up with a definitive sexuality. _Good luck_, thinks Blaine, because he can pass as straight pretty easily to people who don't know him very well.

"But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about," continues Blaine, feeling his face settle into a more serious expression. "It's about Kurt."

"... Kurt?" Dave's voice strains slightly on the word, and all at once there is a strange shift in his demeanour. He draws himself up, a strange tension immediately apparent in the way he holds himself. The larger boy tilts his head to one side, eyes fixed – for the first time since the conversation began – unfalteringly on Blaine.

"Now, Kurt's a very good friend of mine," begins Blaine, still smiling. Open-looking and friendly. "I care about him a lot, and I know you must too. So I can't help but worry about him rushing into a new relationship at a time like this in his life."

The pause that comes next hangs between them like a physical presence. Dave's lips tense, and there is something in his eyes that Blaine can't identify. Just when the silence has grown so long that Blaine is about to continue without any prompting, Dave breaks the silence.

"Uh-huh," Dave manages eventually, the words drawn-out and carefully enunciated. It's all the response Blaine needs.

"Because you must know that Kurt's going through some very sensitive family issues right now. He's talked to you about that, right?" asks Blaine. Dave inclines his head barely-perceptibly. "He probably feels vulnerable. I know that you're a good guy, David. You wouldn't want to take advantage." Blaine says the last part in an understandingly amicable fashion.

There is a long, long pause. Internally, Blaine is practically cheering himself on for taking the plunge and standing up for Kurt so quickly. He's a good friend, after all, even if Kurt doesn't want him as anything else. And eventually, Dave gives his head a small shake – and smiles.

"Of course not, man," says Dave, his grin rivalling Blaine's own. With one large hand, he reaches down and pats Blaine firmly on the back. "Kurt's a great guy; you know, we transferred at the same time? And we've been roomies ever since." He glances around, then leans down conspiratorially, grinning all the while. "You know, between you and me? Kurt and I – we've been together for a while now. I'm still working up the courage to be, you know, _public _out it – and he's a real private person, but..." He smiles. "I like to think of myself as a pretty good support system, you know?"

"... oh," Blaine manages at last, smile beginning to droop.

It is as though there is an entirely new person standing in front of him. Confident, charismatic, friendly. And it feels as though Blaine has been hit over the head with a two-by-four, because he never once even _considered _that theirs was a long-term relationship. That Kurt had been hiding Dave from him all this time. Over a period of weeks, or months.

_Jesus Christ, Kurt never even mentioned his roommate's _name.

"But I totally appreciate the concern, you know? You're obviously a good guy," says Dave, parroting Blaine's earlier words. He gives Blaine's shoulder a squeeze. "Now, I have to head to Calculus. We cool?"

And Blaine can only nod as Dave sends him a grin and heads out the door. He is left standing there alone and stock-still, with no idea what to believe about the person he called his friend anymore.

* * *

><p><em>To: Kurt Hummel<br>May 7__th__, 2011, 10:32am  
>I'm really sorry about last night. But, Kurt... we need to talk. When do you get off class today? – Blaine<em>

_To: Kurt Hummel  
>May 7<em>_th__, 2011, 12:14pm  
>Did you get my last text? Sometimes this phone can be stupid... We need to talk about something. When are you free? I need to see you. – Blaine<em>

_To: Kurt Hummel  
>May 7<em>_th__, 2011, 1:05pm  
>Kurt? What's going on? – Blaine<em>

* * *

><p>The real kicker comes after fifth period. Blaine is just stepping out of his Introductory Law class, reaching into his pocket to pull out his phone to try texting Kurt one last time, when he happens to glance up – and sees a familiar face coming down the hallway.<p>

"Kurt!" he shouts, fumbling to wave with his phone still in hand. Blaine can feel his face light up instinctively at the sight of the curve of Kurt's cheek, the blue of his eyes. The way he picks his way carefully down the crowded hallway, managing to weave his way through the herd of people without ever getting mussed up. "Kurt, hey!"

Kurt glances up. Bright blue eyes meet hazel as their eyes meet across the hall, Kurt clutching a large binder to his chest and staring at Blaine as though there is nothing else left in the world. And all at once, Blaine is completely willing to forgive the secrets, the disinterest, the fleet of unanswered texts as long as Kurt will keep on looking at him that way. The slender boy falters, tenses for a long moment –

– before turning his gaze toward the ground and walking away.

Blaine is left with his hand in the air, mid-wave. Blinking at the hunched figure rushing away from him down the crowded hall, mouth open in wordless shock. The noise of the many young boys chatting and laughing and walking falls away, and all Blaine can hear is the empty buzz of hurt along his skin.

* * *

><p>By the next day, Blaine has no idea what to do. He's sent more text messages to Kurt in the past twenty-four hours than he has in the rest of the four months of their friendship combined. Some upset, some angry, some entreating. And Kurt has responded to none of them. He's tried calling, Skyping, sending Kurt a message over Facebook. Nothing.<p>

Kurt has, practically speaking, entirely cut himself off from him.

In the middle of the day's Warblers' meeting, completely conspicuous and not even attempting to hide his phone, Blaine sends Kurt one last text. Fingers almost tingling with dull numbness, he types out the words as he tones out Wes's voice:

_To: Kurt Hummel  
>May 8<em>_th__, 2011, 11:41am  
>I'll be in the library today like always. Same place, same time, to wait for you. I hope you'll come. – Blaine<em>

He lets out a shuddering breath, hits the 'send' button, and holds his phone in the palm of his hand for the rest of the meeting to make sure he'll feel the vibrations right away if Kurt responds.

Once the meeting ends, Blaine packs up his things and heads for the library without saying goodbye to any of his fellow Warblers. Takes his seat in their usual room, in his usual chair, and waits. Waits for Kurt to come and make everything all right again, to explain. To say sorry, and apologize for the way he's been acting. To tell Blaine that he _does _care about him, that they _are _friends. That Blaine's friendship matters to Kurt at all.

Blaine waits the whole hour.

Kurt never shows.

* * *

><p>The breaking point comes the day after that.<p>

In the morning, Blaine shamelessly skips his second period History class. No doctor's note, no excuse. He doesn't care about what his father will say if the school phones him to alert him of his absence, doesn't care how disappointed his mother will be. None of that matters, in comparison, because Blaine _needs to know_. Had never realized how fucking important Kurt Hummel was to him until he pulled out of Blaine's life all at once and left him dangling in the dark without any explanation whatsoever. Had never realized how empty and superficial and _lonely _his life at Dalton was before Kurt came along.

So instead of learning about post-Revolutionary America, Blaine stands outside what he knows to be Kurt's Chemistry classroom for fifty whole minutes. Leaning against the wall silently, sending a happy-go-lucky grin at any teachers who happen down the hallway in that _yes-I-definitely-am-allowed-to-be-here _sort of way until they smile back and continue on their way. He waits, and waits, and waits – until eventually, the bell rings and the class lets out.

Kurt is among the last of the students to emerge, not part of the initial rush. It is thus incredibly easy for Blaine to dart forward and grab hold of his too-bony shoulder through his Dalton blazer. To tug him off to the side as Kurt's eyes fly wide open with shock.

"Kurt, come with me," says Blaine, sounding far more commanding than he feels. He almost entirely expects Kurt to pull out of his grip; to give Blaine a nasty look and continue on his way, continuing down the hallway as though Blaine had never deigned to speak to him.

But he doesn't. Instead, a small involuntary noise works its way out of Kurt's throat. And when Blaine moves to pull him into a classroom two doors down he knows for a fact will be unoccupied next period, Kurt actually _takes his hand_ to let Blaine guide him easier. The gesture should be comforting; instead, it makes Blaine even more confused. Mish-mashed signals clogging his brain and flipping his heart in circles. He guides them quickly into the abandoned classroom and closes the door.

When Blaine turns to face Kurt, he cannot for the life of him identify the emotions on the other boy's face. Anxiety, yes. Nervousness. But also a certain... _tension_. It almost looks like anticipation in Kurt's so-blue eyes; waiting on utter edge for... something. He is clutching his notebook tight to his chest, and his mouth is slightly open.

And Blaine finally, _finally_ has Kurt to himself.

"What's going on?" asks Blaine desperately, hearing the hitch in his voice even as he tries to conceal it. He can't help it, though; the past three days have been some of his worst since he transferred here. Bewildering and agonizing and so, so hurtful. "I sent you about a million text messages, Kurt, and you didn't respond to _one _of them." He lets out a tiny breath of air. "I know... it was awful, walking in on you like that. I honestly didn't mean to, you have to know that. I never would've come in if I'd known. I know it must have been embarrassing and awful, and I'm so sorry. But... you ignored me. Walked right past me like you didn't know who I was, and... and I don't even _know_ you anymore, Kurt."

Kurt makes a tiny noise in the back of his throat, and Blaine notices absently that Kurt's hands are clenched white around his notebook. But he's on a roll.

"I can't believe I had to drag you away just to talk to you for five seconds. Do you know how much that _hurts_? I thought we were friends." Blaine licks his lips, feeling embarrassment flare up in his cheeks and looking down at the ground to be able to manage the last part. "I'm... I'm so sorry that I kissed you, Kurt. That wasn't my place, and I know that more than ever now. But I can't even believe the way you've reacted to all this. It's... it's been so hurtful to me, you don't even..."

Blaine takes a deep breath, and then lets it out slowly. Still staring at the floor. "If you don't want to be friends anymore, that's... that's fine. But... tell me that, okay? Just tell me what's wrong. Tell me and we can figure it out together. But acting this way is so unfair. To both of us."

He waits for the inevitable blow-up, the incredible wave of fury and disdain he's almost sure will follow.

But it doesn't come. Instead, there is silence – broken by the tiniest of choked-off sounds. Brows furrowing, Blaine looks up. Kurt is standing in front of him, chest heaving and breath starting to come in ragged pants. His eyes are wide, and all of the blood seems to have left his face at once. There is a loud _thud _as Kurt's now-boneless hands drop the notebook to the floor.

"Kurt?" asks Blaine, real worry flaring up hard and strong in his chest. "Kurt, what's wrong?"

But Kurt seems to be having some sort of silent panic attack in front of him. He clutches at the front of his blazer, panting hard, and stumbles back until his back collides with the wood-panelled wall. Squeezing the fabric and panting hard, fast, too much, too frantic. Gulping for air and shaking like a leaf in the wind.

"Blaine," Kurt chokes out at last, and his _voice_. It's full of something raw and hard and Blaine doesn't understand. "Blaine, tell me I can cry."

"What?" asks Blaine, completely taken aback, because his friend seems to be having a full-fledged breakdown in front of him and none of this makes any sense.

"_Tell me I can cry_," Kurt practically shouts, bottom lip trembling and staring at Blaine with frantic need.

"You... you can cry," says Blaine, and Kurt shatters.

Crumpling in on himself and sliding down the wall onto the floor, tears streaking down his face in a matter of seconds. Heaving and panting and gasping into the stillness of the room; loud, desperate sobs that wrack his small form and leave him trembling and out of breath.

And before Blaine even knows what he is doing, he is on the floor next to him. Wrapping his arms around Kurt's shaking shoulders as the slender boy cries, and wails, and weeps with some suppressed anguish that Blaine cannot even guess at. Kurt clings to him like a lifeline. He sobs into Blaine's shirt as Blaine holds him close and whispers nonsense words in his ear. _I'm here _and _it's all okay now _and _shhhh, sweetheart, everything's going to be all right. _

Kurt cries, and cries. Lying on the classroom floor in a tangled heap, Blaine holds him close and has no idea what to do.


	4. Chapter 4

Although Kurt has never been inside Tower Residence before, he has seen it many times from the outside. A lofty four levels high in comparison to Dalton's diminutive main building, it stands sleek and tall and almost-brand-new; Kurt passes it every morning and afternoon on his way to and from class. It is an eye-catching spectacle, especially considering the old-fashioned feel of the rest of campus.

As it turns out, the interior of Tower Residence is just as up-do-date and modern as its outside implies. Blaine's dorm room is spacious and bright, if slightly messy. It has none of the antiquated respectability of Kurt's own dorm or the Dalton campus in general. The walls are a clean, crisp white where they are not adorned with _clearly-a-compromise-between-two-very-different-people_ posters. A framed periodic table of elements. Several large prints; one, a sprawl of colours and faces by Klimt that Kurt doesn't know by name. An oversized calendar, all of its notations made in one person's handwriting.

And Blaine, sitting in front of him on an expensive-looking computer chair and staring at Kurt as though his world is ending.

_Just tell me what's wrong. _It was strange, how those five unintentional words changed everything – and Kurt is still reeling.

It had taken over twenty minutes for Blaine to calm him down to coherency, and ten more to convince him to venture out of the privacy of the abandoned classroom. Only when Blaine had finally managed to wrench out his tear-choked consent did the older boy shift from his position curled up on the floor next to him, removing the protective arm around Kurt's shoulders in order to get them both on their feet. Blaine had taken Kurt's hand without any hesitation and held on tight as he led them purposefully across campus. He had led them right to Tower Residence, giving Kurt's hand a squeeze every other minute and taking the least populated route possible.

The entire walk, he had clutched at Kurt's hand like a lifeline. As though he was afraid that if he let go, it would somehow allow Kurt to slip out of his life again.

Once they arrived, Blaine had unlocked the front door, let them inside, and ushered Kurt into Blaine's dorm room with all the swiftness of a man in charge. After indicating the closer of the two twin beds for Kurt to sit on, Blaine had grabbed a wad of tissues in the bathroom for Kurt to use – _and had started making tea_. Clicking on an electric kettle (plugged into a low socket and sitting unpretentiously on the faux-wood floor) before puttering around the room in a way that had inexplicably reminded Kurt of his mother.

Now, half an hour later, they sit.

Perched on the bed with a half full mug of steaming tea in hand and _explanation _hanging in the air between them like a physical presence, Kurt feels strangely calm. Surreal, almost. As though the story he has just told has happened to someone else, not to him personally. Talking about the past two months... he had felt his lips move and heard himself speak the words without feeling any of the impact they should have had. Even now, it almost feels as though Kurt is floating through the room; indistinct and incorporeal as he waits for Blaine to say something.

He knows he must look a complete mess. Kurt can feel how swollen his eyes are from his breakdown; puffy and probably still red around the edges. His face is still blotchy in a way that no amount of dabbing with a warm washcloth can fix, and still cannot stop himself from sniffing every so often.

It's better now, at least, than it was in the classroom: there, Kurt literally had not been able to stop himself. Hysterical and gasping and face streaked with tears and snot, and Blaine all wrapped around him like some kind of security blanket. Holding him tight and murmuring words that didn't mean anything, even if they were nice to hear.

Part of Kurt cannot believe how completely and utterly he broke down, and in front of whom. Another part is so relieved at finally being able to let the tears come after all these months that he just can't care who it happened in front of.

Kurt wonders if he's stupid, or naive, or some kind of masochistic idiot for telling Blaine everything – the curse, his past, _DaveDaveDaveDaveDaveDaveDave_ – considering how frenetically his family urged him to keep it all a secret growing up, or how he always concealed it from the world even when it meant embarrassment and humiliation and pain.

Considering what happened the last time he told someone.

_The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result, _says Carole's voice in his mind playfully. One of those motherly phrases she'd brought into the household and directed lovingly at him, Finn, and his dad in equal measure.

But Kurt knows with blind, stupid certainty that Blaine would never use his curse against him. Knows it in the way he knows his father loves him more than anything, or that his mother wanted for him to have the best life he possibly could. The certainty is inexplicable, but unshakable in nature. It thrums inside his muscles, his bones. Along his very skin.

In the past half hour, Kurt Hummel has trusted Blaine Anderson with everything he is.

In front of him, Blaine is sitting with a lost expression on his face. Slumped in his rolled-over computer chair, blazer undone and tie loosened around his neck. There is a growing look of horror stealing over his face as Kurt's words sink in. Blaine looks very much worse for wear in general, Kurt thinks, guilt twisting in the base of his stomach. His hair is unkempt and curly around his ears, and dark circles line the hazel of his eyes.

He looks shockingly young.

"Kurt, I... " Blaine trails off, scrubbing a hand through his hair and looking utterly out of his depth. "God, I... I don't know what to say."

And there is nothing Kurt can say to that. Not really.

He takes a sip of tea instead. It's ginger with brown sugar, which is... strange, but somehow fitting. As far as Kurt was able to tell from a cursory look at Blaine's room, the older boy must make this particular drink a great deal. The small box labelled _Authentic Ginger Tea _was already sitting next to the kettle when they came in, along with a small pot of brown sugar with a spoon nestled inside. The tea is strong – almost spicy – but with an edge of sweetness that teases at Kurt's tongue. The hot liquid soothes his raw throat on the way down.

"I'm so sorry," says Blaine at last, staring down at his lap and blinking hard. There is nothing charming about him now. His voice is broken up and thick; either with honesty or pity, Kurt cannot tell.

"Thank you," Kurt says quietly, eyes fixed on the amber liquid cradled in his hands. The apology makes his eyes sting. Around him, the world swirls in an unreal blur. Silence hangs between them, thick and impenetrable as Kurt works to push down the hysterics fighting to bubble up out of him again. Being allowed to cry was cathartic, and important, and _so _very necessary; but now is not the time for tears anymore.

A quick motion makes Kurt's eyes flick up again just in time to see Blaine lean forward and reach out toward him, moving to lay a hand on his knee. The sight almost makes Kurt sighs with relief; god, does he want that. He wants the friendly, comforting touches that Blaine has always seemed to sprinkle throughout their friendship; wants back the tender way Blaine had cradled him in the empty classroom less than an hour ago. The gentleness of his embrace; genuine and caring, with no false facets or hidden levels. Kurt had even liked how small Blaine had been curled up against him, with the warmth of his hands sweet and kind and _real_.

But with his fingers just an inch away from Kurt's knee, Blaine stops. And when Kurt raises his eyes to meet Blaine's, he sees a conflict there. Hesitation, as though Blaine is being torn apart by some sort of internal dilemma.

Finally, after what seems like an enormous pause, Blaine jerks his hand back and clasps them together in his own lap. He looks as though he is mentally berating himself.

Kurt blinks, trying to suppress the dull pang of hurt in his chest. But he does understand. _I wouldn't want to touch me either. _He clutches at the mug in his hands a little bit tighter.

Across from him, Blaine gives his head a little shake.

"Kurt..." Blaine begins, hands in his lap and biting down on his lower lip. "Do... do you have any idea how _rare _that kind of remnant of the old magic is?" he asks at last, apparently opting to go for the least uncomfortable subject at hand.

"I do. Yeah." Mild frustration is beginning to edge at the surreal fog of Kurt's mind. Of _course _he knows. He's lived with this condition his whole life; struggled with it, railed against it, cursed his family over and over for whatever they did to deserve such a punishment. Kurt has spent hours – _days_ – researching possible ways to break it, stories from other relatives, and old magic lore and myths. Does Blaine truly think he's never delved into any of the history of something that defines so much of his life?

"Because it's rare." Apparently Blaine isn't finished. He makes an aborted gesture, then scrubs a hand through his hair again. The curls are loose, now; falling out of their tight gel-slicked curves. "I mean... the last incident in America that the history books talk about was in 1938, and that one got taken to court and _lost –_"

"I _know_, Blaine," snaps Kurt, and Blaine flinches so hard that he immediately regrets it. Because Blaine has always been surrounded by an aura of _dapper-friendly-gentleman-saviour _in Kurt's mind, especially after Dave started to pull him away from virtually everyone else. His one link to the rest of the world; the only person he could be himself with. A few times, on the cusp of sleep and with Dave's warmth pressed up against him in the dark, Kurt had even entertained absurd rescue fantasies with Blaine in the starring role.

But in reality, Blaine is not some kind of knight in shining armour, or a flawless mentor with all of the answers. He is just a sixteen-year-old kid who's been drawn into a terrible situation – and he doesn't know what to do or say to make it better.

"... sorry," mutters Kurt a minute later, feeling contrite.

"It's fine," says Blaine, a little too quickly.

Both of them fall silent again, and Kurt takes another long sip of tea. It empties the mug, so he awkwardly sits it down on the floor beside the bed. The pause drags on, shifting into awkwardness, but Kurt can't think of anything to say. But just as Kurt opens his mouth to say something, _anything _to break the silence, Blaine begins to speak.

"I can't even believe what's happened to you, Kurt. What you've had to deal with." Blaine is speaking quietly, but his voice may as well be amplified tenfold for the way his words reverberate along Kurt's skin. He fidgets, not meeting Kurt's eyes. "And I don't know what to do. I – I don't know how to make it better for you, or what you need, but tell me –" Blaine cuts himself off, wincing. "I mean... if you want, you can tell me. And I can try. I'm just... I'm so confused, and I don't know what's –"

"Real?"

Blaine winces again, but Kurt understands.

"No, it's fine," insists Kurt, reaching forward and putting a hand over Blaine's black slacks-clad knee before he can think better of it. Internally, Kurt grimaces; he doesn't want to make Blaine feel uncomfortable, not after the other boy helped him so much when he needed it so badly. The curly-haired boy looks down at the hand on his knee in surprise and _something else_, but it's too late to move away now. Kurt plunges onward. "I wanted to explain to you so badly. While it was happening, but I couldn't, and... you can ask me. If you like."

The boy across from him looks back sceptically, but Kurt _wants _to talk about it. Has been silenced for so long; made to sit and smile and scream inside his mind where no one could hear him for _months_. And the past three days...

An involuntary shiver runs through Kurt's body at the memory. The past three days have been unbearable. Disgust and humiliation boiling inside of him as one thing after the other went horribly wrong, falling down like dominoes, and all Kurt had wanted to do was to yell. To grab Blaine by the shoulders and say _wait, please, you don't understand, help me, I need you. _And instead, he'd had to avoid the person he wanted to talk to most. To avoid his eyes, and watch his phone lit up with _Blaine Anderson is calling _and not able to pick up. To read every one of his text messages and not be able to say anything in return.

So when Blaine gives him another _are you sure? _look, Kurt nods.

It's a welcome surprise, though, when Blaine tentatively stands – and moves to sit beside him on the bed, angled so that they can still look at one another but without any physical contact. The bed creaks and lowers slightly under the added weight, and Kurt is so aware of Blaine beside him that it almost hurts.

Kurt wishes Blaine would hug him, but he understands.

"So," says Blaine eventually, and his hand is so close to Kurt's on the bed that their fingertips are almost touching. He takes a deep breath, and then lets it out. "How long?" he asks, tentative and wary as though frightened of the response.

"Two months," says Kurt, voice high in the stillness of the room.

Blaine closes his eyes for a long moment, a pained expression tugging at his face. "Two months," he says. "Your family crisis."

Something twists in Kurt's stomach, sickly and horrible. Guilt, yes. And –

* * *

><p>"<em>David, what are you <em>doing? _You're _hurting _me –"_

"_Why was that guy in the common room getting so damn cuddly, Kurt?" Pushing him up against the dorm room wall by his shoulders hard enough to bruise, thick fingers gripping him tight. Dave's just upset; he isn't particularly _trying_ to frighten him, Kurt knows. But fear is still clenching at his stomach. "What are you trying to hide from me?"_

"_Nothing! Dave, it's nothing, I swear, he was –"_

"_Tell me who he was, and tell me the truth."_

"_... that was Nick, from the Warblers. He was worried because I missed another rehearsal and wanted to know why. You wanted to spend time with me instead."_

_A loosening of the grip. "Oh." A large hand reaching up to stroke along his face, cradling his cheek in its palm. "_Oh_." Panting hard with relief, the ugly possessiveness beginning to abate in his eyes. _

_But not gone. Never gone. _

_Dave leans down and pulls Kurt into a tight kiss, slamming their mouths together and twisting his hand into Kurt's hair. It hurts, and it's sloppy, and the repulsion is so strong that the desire to pull away is a physical _need. _This is all so new, and awful, and every touch is a fresh violation. Eventually, Dave releases him; presses gentler kisses along his face instead, running a hand up and down Kurt's arm._

"_If someone asks you a question like that," mouths Dave along his skin, kissing his left cheek. "Tell them...that you've had a family emergency." His breath is hot and warm along Kurt's forehead as he presses another kiss there. "Tell them you don't have time for any extra activities." Dave kisses the corner of Kurt's mouth. "Tell them... tell them that... god, Kurt, want you so much –"_

* * *

><p>"That was the cover story he made me tell," says Kurt, and the words seem so empty. So impersonal. Just another fact; not something that happened to him personally.<p>

Without seeming to realize what he is doing, Blaine reaches over and puts his hand on top of Kurt's. His hand is warm and soft with long piano-playing fingers, and the touch is so comforting – so _instinctual _– that Kurt immediately curls his own hand around it. Once again, he wonders if there is something wrong with him for wanting the physical contact as badly as he does. Wonders if Dave broke something important inside of him, and now he can't tell what he wants and what he doesn't.

Blaine's hand feels good in his, though, and so he holds it tight.

"And..." starts Blaine, eyes darting away. "When... when I kissed you?"

* * *

><p>"<em>It's okay," coos Dave softly, stroking a hand through Kurt's hair as the smaller boy sobs into his chest. "It's all right, babe." <em>

_They are sitting on the bed with Kurt scooped up into Dave's arms like a small child, and Kurt's face is hot and wet as he chokes out the words. _

"Please_," Kurt begs, all dignity gone, clutching at the fabric of Dave's t-shirt. "Please make it stop, make it better, I can't – I can't even think. My head... it's broken and wrong inside my _head_, Dave, please..."_

"_I know," murmurs Dave, voice quiet and subdued, and Kurt can't even feel ashamed of himself anymore. It's all wrong and twisted and blocked and jammed and misdirected, and trying to think in a straight line is practically impossible. He just wants it to stop so badly it _hurts_, is willing to do anything it takes to be himself inside his own mind again. He clutches harder at Dave's shoulders. _

"_Whatever you want." Kurt's muttering senselessly now, an endless chain of entreating words as he shivers and shudders in Dave's arms. The words don't mean anything compared to the way his thoughts barely belong to him, a prison of __**don't think**__ and __**don't feel**_ _he keeps running into like walls. "You can do whatever, okay? Even... what you m-made me do before. Just – just fix it. God, please, fix it, it – it's too much, I can't – _please_ –"_

"_Kurt." The word is soft but commanding, and he feels Dave's large hand tilt his head up so that their eyes meet. And fuck, Dave's eyes. Full of something soft and sweet and completely false as he strokes a thumb over his cheek. "Kurt, you can think and feel just like you would normally, okay?"_

_Kurt inhales sharply and lurches forward. The world is spinning around him, but Dave's arms are still tight and sure. And if Kurt was crying before, he's _sobbing_ now. Gasping and choking on tears of relief as he _feels _his mind begin to mend itself. Connections being repaired, and blocks being lifted, and a flood of things he wasn't allowed to_ _feel all coming back at once. Fear, and anger, and grief for himself rushing into his head all at the same time, and he can barely breathe for the heaving sobs that wrack his chest._

_And when Dave spreads his hands out on Kurt's back and pulls him close, pressing hard and frantic kisses against his lips, Kurt lets it happen. Flushed and trembling from the hysterical gratitude of being able to _think _again, he lets it happen. _

"_Don't cry about this anymore, baby," murmurs Dave against his lips, the kisses forceful. Claiming. "It's okay," he says, clinging to Kurt with the desperation of a drowning man struggling for air. So many kisses, one after the other, fast and raw. "I've got you. Don't cry." _

_And all at once, the tears stop. _

_Drying up immediately, as though someone has turned off a faucet. Kurt gasps for breath, blinks hard – and no tears come. It's like grasping for straws, at something just out of his reach. And all at once, he wants to cry more badly than anything. Wants more of the release of hot moisture on his cheeks and the cleanse of everything as it pours out of him. A horrified whine escapes from the back of Kurt's throat; Dave pushes him down onto the bed with hard kisses. _

"_You're all mine," chokes Dave, shaking fingers reaching down to unbutton Kurt's shirt. "All of you, every inch. I'm so sorry I hurt you like that, babe. I never meant to." _

_Dave slams their lips together, reaching down into the opened shirt and rolling Kurt's nipple between his fingertips. Gently, teasingly, as he opens Kurt's mouth with his own and pushes his tongue inside. Tears are trying to choke the back of his throat, but they simply won't come. And Kurt is scared, frightened out of his mind._

_But at least he can feel it at all. _

"_Just need you close so bad, you know?" Dave mutters when they break apart, panting. "Need you here with me always. Always mine, Kurt, no one else's. This... this doesn't change that." Moving to kiss a trail down Kurt's neck before biting down on the skin there, sensitive and flushed. Kurt gasps, and his body instinctively tries to jerk away, but Dave holds him in place. Still whispering words along his skin every time he pulls back. "Don't flirt with anyone, like before, yeah? And – fuck, Kurt, you taste so _good_ –_don't _let _anyone_ touch you like this. Not ever. Just – just get out of there and come find me and I'll take care of you, Kurt, I'll always take care of you –"_

* * *

><p>The sharp taste of bile rising in Kurt's throat is enough to jolt him out of the memory. When he blinks, Blaine's face comes into focus. Staring at him as though Kurt might break, and Blaine will have to pick up the pieces.<p>

"He... Dave..." Blaine gives him a strange look at his use of Dave's first name, but 'Karofsky' simply will not come to Kurt's lips. The command to only use Dave's first name is still under effect, after all. "He's jealous. When he got rid of the orders that changed the way I thought –"

"Wait, _what_?" Fresh horror floods Blaine's face. "You – it can change the way you _think_? Like... like in your head?"

"Mhmm. How I feel, too."

"_Jesus_," breathes Blaine, appalled shock apparent in the word. He looks slightly sick, and he's squeezing Kurt's hand so tightly it almost hurts.

"Anyways," says Kurt, because when he says all this out loud the weight of it all doesn't feel like so much, so horrible, as it did on his own. When he was the only person in the world to know what was happening to him. "When he did that, he covered his bases. Told me not to flirt with anyone, and... to come to him if anyone... did anything to me."

"... oh, god." All at once, Blaine sounds very small. Very frightened. "Oh, god, Kurt. When I kissed you, did you have to _tell_ Karofsky –?"

"No," says Kurt quietly. "There was a loophole. I just had to _find_ him, he never said I had to tell him."

And Blaine gives him this _look_. It's long, and hard, and it makes Kurt feel more exposed than anything they've talked about so far. Almost more exposed than when Blaine opened the door and saw the two of them together. As though Blaine is peeling back his skin and seeing what's inside.

"...you've been fighting for so long, haven't you," says Blaine softly, still looking at Kurt as though seeing him for the first time.

It isn't a question, so Kurt doesn't bother responding.

"And then you saw us," continues Kurt, staring into his lap. Remembering the squirming desperation as Dave fucked him hard into the mattress when the door opened. Himself moaning like a whore and _wanting _it, so badly _wanting _it, lost in a fog of heat and need as Blaine stood there and stammered. Being hard and unsatisfied and _ordered to stay _when Blaine ran off and Dave followed, writhing and gasping and fighting with everything he had to think straight and stand up and go and it _wasn't enough. _"And it was the worst thing I could imagine, and I couldn't explain, and he made me stay there when you left, and I couldn't _explain _–"

"I left you there," says Blaine, words full of dull horror and reverberating with quiet self-loathing. "Kurt... you were being _raped_ and I _left _you there."

"You didn't know," insists Kurt quickly, both for himself and for Blaine's sake. He winces at _that word_.

"And I told him," says Blaine, gaining speed and looking angrier with himself by the second. "I went and _found _him and told him you were my friend. You were hiding me, Kurt, and I walked right up and _told _him."

* * *

><p><em>When Kurt catches sight of Dave marching purposefully up to him in the hallway between classes, an unreadable expression on his face, he winces – but doesn't suspect anything right away. Sometimes, when the larger boy has a hard day at school or a difficult class, he will seek Kurt out in public. Take him into a private corner and wrap his arms around Kurt until he's calm again.<em>

_But –_

"_Come with me," says Dave, almost snapping, and Kurt knows at once that something is horribly, horribly wrong. Because Dave never, ever speaks to him this way in public; he is always friendly and amiable, all shoulder slaps and loud laughter. Not stony-faced and hard, walking quickly ahead of Kurt and not looking back as he leads them into an empty classroom._

_When they get inside and the door is safely closed, Dave turns on him._

"_What the _fuck _is going on?" Dave snarls, and Kurt's eyes widen. Because Dave simply does not talk to him like this. Angry expletives and dangerous eyes, and leaning in so that the height difference between them is exaggerated and dramatic. Back facing the wall, it takes all of Kurt's willpower not to take a step back. And it takes Kurt a moment to realize that Dave is waiting for a response._

"_I don't –" he starts, but Dave cuts him off by _slamming _his palm into the wall beside Kurt's head. The sound of its collision makes Kurt recoil and shrink back and Jesus, Dave is_ furious_. Angrier than Kurt has ever seen him by far, and it's such a change from his usual _**caringlovingkind** _routine that Kurt has no idea what to do._

"_You lied to me," says Dave, words coming hard and fast. "You fucking _lied _to me, Kurt."_

"_I don't know what you're talking ab–" _

"_Anderson came and talked to me this morning."_

_Oh, fuck. Ohfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. _

_The humiliation of last night is still raw like a fresh wound, but at Dave's words the feeling gives way to blind panic. _

"_He says you two are real buddy-buddy," continues Dave, a look of derision and betrayal pulling his face into an ugly expression. "Good friends, that's what he said. You never told me about him, Kurt, not even when I asked. Were you _hiding _him from me?"_

Distract him, _Kurt thinks desperately. For Christ's sake, distract him. Don't let him focus on Blaine._

"_You never let me see anyone!" Kurt shouts back, only barely keeping his voice low enough to go unnoticed by the students outside. There's only so much he can verbalize, Dave having placed down order after order in the past about what he is allowed to say, but he can edge the boundaries as closely as possible. "Remember Jeff? Remember Nick? Or how about all of my other friends I never see anymore, Dave? I had to hide him in order to interact with a single human being other than you! You just – you want to keep me locked up in your ivory tower, and –"_

"_Stop talking," says Dave, voice cold, and Kurt's mouth slams shut before he can think to fight it. Kurt wants to glare at him, to snarl and huff – but those were some of the first things Dave stopped him from doing. He settles for staring at the other boy, unblinking and hard. _

_Dave takes a slow step forward, and then another, until he and Kurt are practically nose-to-nose. The expression on his face is colder than Kurt has ever seen it before. After a long moment, he reaches a hand up and places it along the curve of Kurt's cheek. _

"_We're gonna talk about this later," enunciates Dave, slowly and carefully, making every word count. "But until then? Do not talk to Blaine Anderson. Do not communicate with Blaine Anderson. Ignore, do not respond to, and _avoid _Blaine Anderson. Is that clear enough for you?"_

_For a fleeting moment, Kurt thinks _**this is it**_._ This _will be the order that ends everything, the one he'll finally manage to withstand. _

_So he fights. Stumbling back against the wall, Kurt struggles against the pain, and the nausea, and the pounding voice inside his mind saying __**youhavetoyouhavetoyouhaveto**__. Eyes clenched shut and body rigid with effort, he thinks of Blaine._ _Blaine, who has been the one shred of light in his life for the past two months. Who is kind, and gentle, and actually cares about Kurt as a person. Who brought him chocolate and is interested in his midterm results and who _kissed him_in the library, soft and sweet and yearning. _

_Kurt fights, and fights, as his muscles clench and his head pounds and it feels as though he's going to pass out and then it feels like he's going to __**die **__and it's __**too much too much too much –**_

_Until his body finally gives out, sliding down the wall as his mind gives in. Kurt sits, sweat pouring down his face and still trembling from the effort, and hates himself more than ever before._

"_Good," says Dave, extending his hand. There is no point in Kurt not taking it, even as he refuses to look Dave in the eye. _

_Once he is standing, Dave strokes a hand over Kurt's brow. Wiping away the excess sweat and straightening his hair. Some mix between affectionate, warning, and possessive that Kurt just cannot bring himself to contemplate right now. _

"_Meet me in our dorm after class," says Dave at last, short and commanding – and he leans down and presses his lips against Kurt's in a kiss – hard, and fast, and claiming – before turning and heading to the door. _

_Right before he leaves, he looks over his shoulder. "You can talk," says Dave, almost as an afterthought, and then he is gone. _

_Standing alone in the room, trembling and an utter mess, Kurt's phone begins to vibrate in his pocket._

* * *

><p>"It wasn't your fault," says Kurt, voice monotone to his own ears. Blaine stares at him, long and hard, and Kurt reaches down to unthinkingly rub at his wrists. "The past two days have been... hard, though."<p>

Blaine's eyes widen into a look of utter distress before he carefully schools his expression into something more neutral. And god, is it ever hard watching him react. Because in the past months, the entire nightmare of a situation has degenerated from unimaginably awful to simply _Kurt's life_, day in and day out. But seeing someone else respond... Kurt's throat feels thick and his eyes begin to sting.

And all at once, Kurt needs to be out of here _now. _He coughs lightly, straightening his posture, before turning to face Blaine.

"Would it be all right if I used your bathroom?" he asks, proud for there not being a hint of a waver in his voice.

"... what?" There is a beat, and Blaine blinks before giving his head a little shake. "Sorry. Sorry, yes, of course you can, Kurt. Of course."

Before Blaine can even finish his sentence, Kurt is striding purposefully across the bedroom without looking back. Past the messy second bed and into the private bathroom, shutting the door with a too-loud thud and locking it behind him.

As soon as the lock _clicks _shut, Kurt pauses – and lets out a long, uneven breath of air. He scrubs a hand over his eyes, which are starting to water again, before turning toward the sink. Kurt lets the water run warm before cupping his hands beneath the flow and splashing several handfuls onto his face. A few stray drops trickle down his neck and soak into the fabric of his button-up, but Kurt cannot bring himself to care. After patting down with the hand towel hanging on the wall – deep-red and plush, obviously new and expensive – he opens his eyes and stares into the mirror.

The boy staring back at him is pale and haggard-looking. His cheeks are still blotchy and red in ugly patches, and the rims of his eyes remain stubbornly swollen. The blue of his eyes is sharper than usual. Conventionally attractive, he thinks, if a little damp and wrung-out. Face more slender and defined than it used to be even a year ago; a passable nose and curved lips that Dave has described as 'pretty' more times than Kurt can count.

He looks overwhelmed. Defeated.

"You're weak," Kurt tells his reflection.

His reflection doesn't say anything back.

* * *

><p>Ten minutes later, Kurt opens the door and comes back into the dorm room proper. Composed and straightened up; steeled to say what needs to be said. Blaine is sitting in the same chair as before, and if Kurt's mug wasn't refilled and steaming with a fresh round of tea he would probably assume that the other boy hadn't moved since he left. Blaine sits with his hands folded in his lap and a soft expression of determination on his face.<p>

"Blaine –" begins Kurt, but the other boy interjects.

"What do you need me to do?" Blaine asks, which is a perfect lead-in to what Kurt was going to say anyways.

Kurt leans against Blaine's desk – it must be Blaine's because it's covered in law books and sheet music and a tremendously expensive-looking laptop – and tilts his head to one side. "If you could..." He coughs lightly. "Removing Dave's orders would be very helpful."

"Oh, god, of course," says Blaine at once, and he screws up his face in an expression of concentration. He clears his throat. "Don't follow... wait, no... you can choose to follow or not follow all of the orders Karofsky gave you. Does that work?"

But Kurt is already slumping against the solid wood of the desk in relief. It is as though hundreds of courses of action have been opened to him all at once, a straight-flowing river all at once branching off into dozens of possible options. Like having manacles removed after having them on so long, they felt like second-nature. If Kurt wanted to, he could pick a direction and start walking as far away from this school as possible. Or call his father, or punch Karofsky in the face, or any of the innumerable possibilities that Dave forbade him from for so long.

It feels so life-changing, and impossible, and _free_ that Kurt chokes out a sob before he can help it.

"Are you okay?" blurts Blaine, sounding slightly frantic. All at once the other boy is up from his chair and moving toward him, putting a steadying arm on Kurt's shoulder. "Did I do it right?"

"Yes," breathes Kurt, swallowing hard. "Yes, it's... it's fine. It worked."

"Oh, thank god," exhales Blaine, and Kurt takes a moment to truly _look _at the boy in front of him. Hair a mess and face flushed, with his tie loosened around his neck in an informal way Kurt has never seen before. His hand on Kurt's shoulder is solid, and guilt ripples in Kurt's stomach for being so _grateful _for the touch. Blaine's thick brows are furrowed in concern, and his eyes are shining with worry, and anxiety... and something else. There is a slight mania lurking just below the surface, as though he's holding himself together for Kurt's sake. As though, were he alone, Blaine would fragment into a million pieces.

_He never asked to be involved in this._

"Blaine... thank you," says Kurt, biting down on his lip and meeting Blaine's eye. "For pushing. And taking me back here, and..." _And even if it's too much to handle, I'm so grateful. "_It just means so much to me."

"Of course," says Blaine, a small uncertain smile tugging at his lips.

Kurt returns it, lets out a breath – and begins to head for the door.

"Hey," says Blaine, quietly at first, but gaining volume as he continues. "_Hey_, Kurt, what – where are you going?"

Hand on the door handle, Kurt freezes. "I don't know," he says, words slow and careful, eyes fixed on the door. "Maybe the library? I just... I need to think. Figure out what to do next."

There is a pause, long and stretched out and increasingly uncomfortable, and eventually Kurt feels the need to turn around. Blaine is standing in the middle of the room, hands at his sides and looking at Kurt as though his head is on fire.

"What are you _talking _about?" Blaine's voice is brimming with confusion. "You don't have to _leave_."

"You've been very nice," says Kurt carefully. "And I'm grateful, believe me. And you deserved an explanation. But Blaine... you don't have to feel obligated –"

"I don't," says Blaine at once, taking a step forward. "I don't feel that way."

Kurt feels his eyebrows draw together. "Then why...?"

Nervously, Blaine runs a hand through his stiff hair. Their eyes are caught together, frozen as they stare at one another across the room.

Blaine lets out an uneven breath. "Kurt... you must know that I..." he trails off, eyes darting down to Kurt's lips for the smallest fraction of a second. Kurt remembers the library. The chocolate, bitter and complicated on his tongue. Remembers Blaine kissing him. At the time, it had been a _problem _more than anything. One more thing to deal with. He hadn't taken much time at all to think about _why_. Blaine shifts awkwardly where he stands. "I care about you, Kurt. A lot. When Karofsky made you run away from me, it was... you're one of my best friends." Blaine's posture twists into something ashamed, hunched over and small and guilty. "You don't need to deal with how I feel, okay? You've been through so much, and you shouldn't have to handle that, but... I want to help you."

"Oh." The sound is quiet and surprised on the air. "I didn't..." Because _what does he want from me _and _I don't know how I feel about him _and _he doesn't deserve to have to deal with this _keep running through Kurt's mind like a broken record, over and over, and Kurt can't make it stop. But Blaine has been the only real part of his life for two whole months; has made him feel like a human being when everything else was taken away.

But he never, ever let himself think that he was important to Blaine in the same way.

"...okay," he says at last, and the word makes Blaine look weak with relief.

"All right," says Blaine, breathing out a sigh. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone, and gives Kurt a look. "Now... are we calling the police first, or your dad?"

Kurt blinks. "I... what?"

"The police, probably, right? Give them a chance to get here quickly..." Blaine leans over and begins to hit buttons on his phone's touch screen.

"Blaine, stop it," says Kurt, alarmed. "Stop it, there isn't any point."

"Of course there is," says Blaine absently, large white _9-1-1 _numbers already prominent on his phone's screen. Just as he's about to press the green 'send' button, however, Kurt darts forward and grabs his arm to stop him.

"Call them and tell that _what_?" asks Kurt harshly, and _there _is some of the emotion he's been pushing down for the past hour. "That I had sex with a boy my own age for two months without reporting it, and suddenly I'm saying _this_? Or that there are _no _physical signs of me being forced, none at all? Or that Karofsky will tell them it was consensual, could even order _me _to tell them I wanted it? Because_ that_ is all the police are going to see, Blaine."

"But," says Blaine, in a _lost _sort of way that speaks of a lifetime of trust that police will always try to do the right thing. For a moment, Kurt envies that privilege. "But the curse..."

"Tell me, then," says Kurt, hands flying up in an expression of defensiveness. "_Tell me_ that when I explained to you what happened, you didn't feel the slightest bit of doubt or scepticism about it. Go on." At Blaine's guilty look, he continues. "_1938_, Blaine. And they _lost _in court. No one's going to believe me about this; no one_ wants _to believe me about this. And 'I have to do what anyone tells me to do'?" Kurt raises his fingers up into air-quotations. "Can you _think _of an easier curse to fake?"

"But you aren't faking," says Blaine softly, looking like a kicked puppy.

"I know that, Blaine. And so do you, but..." Kurt shrugs. "No one else is going to want to."

Blaine looks dismally down at his cell phone before deleting the three numbers on its screen. He lets out a small noise of frustration.

"That's... that's so unfair, Kurt."

"I know," says Kurt. _I've been dealing with it my entire life. _

"But then... how are we going to handle Karofsky?"

"I have no idea." Kurt's voice is high and fragile in the quiet room. He takes a seat on Blaine's bed again and picks up the fresh cup of tea. He doesn't want it, really, but it's something to do with his hands.

"If – if I ordered you to not obey any of Karofsky's orders _ever,_ would that...?" asks Blaine, straightening up with a hopeful look in his eyes.

"No," says Kurt bitterly. "My dad... we tried that, with the bullies at my school. New orders just cancel it out."

"Damn it," mutters Blaine, and Kurt nods. There is another long pause.

"Well... my father has some pull with the school board," says Blaine slowly after a moment, sounding as though he is constructing the idea even as he speaks it out loud. "He could... I don't know, have you change rooms? You could come and live with me instead."

"So I could still see my rapist in the hallway every day, you mean?" states Kurt matter-of-factly, although his voice cracks slightly on the word 'rapist'. Blaine flinches, and Kurt shakes his head. "It wouldn't stop him. Karofsky is..." _Obsessive. Unhinged. Delusional. In love with me. _"... more determined than that."

They sit for a while longer, Blaine staring off into nothing in a way that suggests frantically considering all the options. "We could tell your dad," suggests Blaine after a long pause, glancing down at his phone again.

The idea is so comforting, so _appealing _that Kurt cannot stop himself from closing his eyes and imagining it. His father, ever the pillar of gentle strength, wrapping him up in his arms and telling him that _everything's gonna to be okay, buddy_. Taking him away far away from this school; back to Finn and Carole, and their house, and his old life.

But it isn't as simple as that.

"If I know my dad at all," says Kurt slowly, "he wouldn't be able to hear about what happened... what's been _happening _to me... without going after Karofsky. And how would that look?" Kurt tilts his head to one side. "'_Grown man ruthlessly beats helpless teenage boy,'" _says Kurt, waving his hand over the air to indicate a fictitious newspaper title. And there's something worse, too. A certainty that sits heavy and hard in Kurt's stomach. "And Dave – _Karofsky,_ I mean... I think that at this point, even if my dad took me away... he would come after me."

"You think he'd go that far?"

"Yes," says Kurt at once, hating the answer even as he knows it to be true.

"Shit," says Blaine, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I don't... I have no idea what to do, Kurt."

And that is when the idea comes. Creeping and insidious along the edges of Kurt's mind, nudging and twisting at the corners of his brain. It is fragile and indistinct and not fully developed, but it's _something. _He looks up at Blaine, sitting there with his head in his hands. Blaine, who claims to care about him. Who wants to help to make things right again. The proposal dancing on the tip of Kurt's tongue is horrific, but at least Blaine wouldn't have to take the brunt of it.

Kurt thinks, long and hard, about whether or not he is willing to do this.

He decides that he is.

"I have one idea," declares Kurt, straightening up his posture and wrapping determination around himself like a cloak. "But I'm going to need your help."


	5. Chapter 5

"_You can't be serious. Kurt... Kurt, you can't – please don't do this."_

"_I can, and I fully intend to."_

"_Kurt... Kurt, please – we'll think of something else, all right?"_

"_We've been over this already. Neither of us can think of another way. Blaine, we're running out of _time_."_

"_... I'm not going to let you."_

"_Really, now? What are you going to do, _order _me not to?"_

"_..."_

"_I thought so."_

"_Kurt..."_

"_You can either help me or I'm doing this on my own."_

* * *

><p>There is nothing particularly notable about the dorm room that Dave Karofsky and Kurt Hummel have spent the past four months living in. Its size and shape are average for the building in which the room is located, and dozens of near-identical dorms can be found off of every hallway in the Milward-Hopkins building. Where posters of fashion icons used to adorn the walls, each and every one has been slowly and practically unnoticeably removed in the course of the past two months. Now the walls are nearly bare, with the exception of the old-fashioned crown and base moulding. The room is tidy; lived-in, and almost entirely unremarkable.<p>

Aside from the fact that the worst experiences of Kurt's life have taken place here, there is nothing special about this room.

For the first time in weeks, Kurt lies on his own bed. Although Dave insisted that their two twins remain separate for fear of any visitors or curfew-enforcers remarking on them being pushed together, Kurt cannot remember the last time he was allowed to sleep in his own bed. Dave always preferred to keep him close at night instead, wrapping his arms around Kurt's waist and pressing his nose into the crook of Kurt's neck. For the first few minutes, his touch always made Kurt's skin crawl: but eventually, the sensation would fade into normalcy.

Every night, Kurt would stare at the wall and dread the morning until sleep dragged him forcibly under. And most mornings he would wake to Dave's harsh breathing behind him and a large hand pushing aside the waistband of his pyjama pants; to Dave's voice in his ear whispering a shaky, "_c'mon, enjoy this, babe"_ as Dave took him in hand.

As has become second nature to him over the past months, there is a disconnect between Kurt's mind and his body as he lies on his bed – but this time it's not the fault of the curse. His stomach twists in knots of anxiety and anticipation, every nerve on edge and every creak and muffled laugh from the room next door amplified tenfold.

Within Kurt's mind, however, there is only the dreary resignation that comes with long practice. There will be time, later, to think about this. For now, Kurt shoves all the revulsion and anxiety down as far as it will go. Locks it all deep inside and focuses instead on what needs to be done.

When his phone goes off on the bed next to him, Kurt reaches over to pluck it off the covers and holds it above his head. After reading the contents of the text, he stands and places the phone on his desk before walking over to adjust something on the tall shelf beside the bathroom door. Once everything is ready, he takes a deep, steadying breath. Goes over what he has to accomplish one final time before he can hear footsteps coming down the hall. Heavy and hard, getting louder and louder, and there's no doubt in Kurt's mind who's standing outside.

He steps back into the middle of the room just in time to hear a key turn in the lock, and the sound of the door swinging open.

When Kurt turns around, Dave is standing there. Tall and broad and taking up almost the entire doorway, looking at him with a mixture of tension and affection on his face.

He hadn't been lying when he'd said the past few days had been hard. Kurt's mind flashes briefly to the bruises on his wrists, the way Dave's voice had gone nearly hoarse from shouted reprimands after finding out about Blaine.

Kurt imagines he should feel frightened.

He doesn't.

"Hey," says Dave, brows furrowing a little in confusion. He drops his knapsack onto the floor with a soft _thump_ and closes the door. "I thought you had class in fifth period."

Like a statue, hard and stoic, Kurt says nothing. Without Dave's orders to constrain him, Kurt can feel his face twisting into an expression of distaste seemingly of its own volition; eyes narrowing, lips curling up into a sneer. Dave gives him a strange look, taking a step closer.

"Well," says Dave after a long pause, a hint of something playful coming into his eyes. "Since you're here, at least we can use the time for something _nice_, right?" He grins and takes a another step forward into Kurt's personal space, reaching up to place a hand on the back of Kurt's neck –

— and Kurt twists out of his grasp before he can get a good hold, sidestepping the hand. All the while keeping his gaze fixed right on Dave's eyes.

"No," states Kurt, and his voice is full of understated hardness to his own ears. "No, stop it, I don't want this."

Dave stumbles back as though physically struck by the words. His eyes fly wide open, a look of complete bewilderment twisting at his face. A strange tension begins to tug at Dave's body; he straightens up, holding his shoulders ever-so-slightly too tight.

"What?" asks Dave in a small, dazed voice. "What are you_..._?" There is a long pause before Dave chokes out a tiny laugh, shaking his head as if to dispel something from his mind. "Stop saying that, Kurt," he orders firmly, before moving to reach out to touch Kurt again.

Once more, Kurt evades. Darting out of the way before Dave can take hold.

"Don't touch me," Kurt spits instead, mind working frantically to come up with new ways to phrase the sentiment. There's only so long he can do this for, and every sentence has to count.

In front of him, Dave looks as though he's been punched in the gut. He reels back, hurt and betrayal and _incomprehension _drawn across his face.

"What is _wrong _with you?" Dave asks in disbelief, looking at Kurt as though he's never seen him before. As though Kurt is a piece of malfunctioning technology; a computer with a blue screen. Error messages that shouldn't be there. "Don't – don't say that, just – hold still and let me kiss you –"

All at once, Kurt's feet may as well be glued to the hardwood floor. Dave steps purposefully forward, grabbing Kurt's shoulders hard in both hands so hard that it almost hurts, and Kurt only has a few seconds to make count.

"This is _rape_ –" Kurt tries to shout, loud and strong and sure on the last word before Dave slams their lips together. It isn't a kiss so much as a silencing: Dave stands against him, large and strong and unmovable. Even if the curse would let him try to jerk away, Dave is so much _bigger _than him that there wouldn't be a point. Over the past months, Kurt has become more aware than ever before of how small and slight and delicate his body is: he doesn't have even the tiniest chance of physically overpowering the other boy. Twice damned, he has no choice except to stand there and let Dave kiss him, hard and bruising and unrelenting.

When Dave finally pulls away, there is something icy and hard in his expression.

"I have no idea what the hell's been going on with you lately," he says, quiet and hard and shaking. Kurt can almost _feel _Dave's anger over him hiding Blaine coming to the surface again, mingling with this fresh disloyalty. "But _do not _say anything like that. Don't you _dare_, Kurt." Something like a sneer comes over Dave's face. "What happened, did some teacher today say you should _express _yourself? Speak your _mind_?"

An ugly expression tugs at Dave's lips, and his fingers are still digging into Kurt's bony shoulders. "You're so fucking ungrateful, Kurt," says Dave resentfully. "I _love _you. I love you more than anything, and this is how you pay me back? Jumping at every chance to lie to me, and talk back, and –"

But the rest of his sentence is cut off when Kurt pulls back and spits on Dave's face.

Dave freezes in place as spit hits him right on the cheek, an expression of shock frozen on his face for what seems like an endless moment. There is a pause. Then, Dave closes his eyes like someone in physical pain.

"Okay," he says softly, "that's enough." With one hand, Dave lets go of Kurt's shoulder and reaches up to rub the spit off his cheek. It leaves a wet smear there, shining in the light of the room. Kurt's heart is pounding in his chest, but he makes sure to keep the glare firmly fixed to his face. It doesn't take much. Dave lets out a long, hard breath of air. "Kurt... I love you," he says, giving his head a small shake. "But sometimes you just need to be reminded..."

Trailing off, Dave's eyes dart briefly downward. And when the larger boy looks up again Kurt can barely keep himself from shuddering. The expression on Dave's face is shocking in its resemblance to that of the parent of a misbehaving child. Tried patience, and frustration, and _regret_ at having to resort to admonishment.

And underneath it all, the same sick affection that's been there all along. As though if Dave _teaches him a lesson_, Kurt will learn to behave. Will go back to being the obedient little thing he was.

"Get on your knees," Dave says, quiet and confident in the manner of someone who doesn't have to yell or shout to have their orders followed. Kurt holds his gaze, glaring all the while, for as long as he can before the dizziness begins to truly set in. When he can no longer hold out, he sinks ever-so-slowly down to the floor.

"Don't look at me like that," Dave reprimands, unbuttoning the front of his black slacks. "This is for your own good. And just in case you have any other bright ideas: don't bite down."

The floor is hard and cold beneath Kurt's knees. Despite all the things Dave has made him do, Kurt has only been forced to suck Dave's cock once before. It was the same day the other boy discovered him standing at the top of a flight of stairs, trying with all his might to push through the dizziness and nausea and pain long enough to convince his body to throw itself down. It hadn't taken long for Dave to worm the truth out of him later that night.

It's rare for Dave to force him into a one-sided act like this. In the past, Dave's told him about how useless it makes him feel; how he'd always prefer to drive Kurt wild with his own mouth or hand. Would rather make Kurt lose control than be pleasured himself. Sex, Dave had always told him, was fair because it was 'fair'. Because both of them 'got something out of it'.

Privately, Kurt has always believed that forcing him to his knees makes Dave feel guilty.

Letting out a breath, Dave pulls unzips his fly and pulls out his cock. Kurt is surprised to see that there is only the smallest beginning of an erection there.

And then comes a long, terrible moment where Kurt absolutely knows what is going to come next: Dave is going to tell him to _enjoy this_. The fog will come, pleasurable and maddening, cloying at his mind and making his mouth water; making him open wide and choke happily around Dave's cock. Groaning and licking and teasing and purring while his mind screams on the inside.

For so many reasons, Kurt dreads the command; flinches when Dave opens his mouth.

But the order doesn't come.

"Open up," he says instead. "Let me fuck your mouth, babe." From what Kurt can see from his current position, Dave's expression is a picture of determination tinged with guilt.

And as Kurt gives in and parts his lips, he realizes: Dave actually thinks that holding back from telling Kurt to enjoy this is a punishment.

It isn't. It's _glorious. _

When Dave pushes his now half-hard cock between Kurt's lips, every single bit of revulsion and discomfort is _his own_. The smell, the taste, the _feel _of the unwanted pressure on his tongue makes Kurt's stomach roil in a way that isn't clouded with need or desire or desperation. It isn't clean: there's too much musk along the tip, dirty and disgusting, and the knowledge of what that's from makes Kurt's stomach turn. Dave begins to harden as he pushes in, swelling and filling Kurt's mouth and already making is jaw ache – and when Dave's hips stutter forward and thrust in, the movement makes Kurt retch gag wetly around the length.

Kurt _doesn't want this_, and for the first time his body doesn't want it either. He clenches his hands into thighs and _hates _it, revelling in the harsh clarity of the emotion.

"C'mon, babe, take it," murmurs Dave, hand coming down to tangle in Kurt's hair. The touch is rough, holding Kurt's head in place as he begins to rock his hips harder. His thumb drags over Kurt's scalp in a way that is supposed to be comforting. It feels so _wrong, _having something so big shoved into his mouth like this: an invasion he's barely had to deal with before now. Dave's cock slides farther in, hitting the back of his throat and triggering his gag reflex again. Kurt's never had much practice at this: he splutters and chokes around it, eyes watering. "Don't _choke_, Kurt, come _on_."

At once, the muscles in Kurt's throat relax without his permission. His tongue depresses on its own, and his jaw opens wide to take Dave in. Experimentally, Kurt attempts to gag around the cock in his mouth: he can't. The urge is shoved down so hard it might as well not exist. Dave keeps up the rhythm, hand on Kurt's head as he guides his too-big cock in and out of Kurt's mouth. Sometimes deep, sometimes little shallow thrusts that wrap Kurt's lips around the head.

It's so much easier to disassociate when it's like this. When disgust is pounding through his head instead of being hard and hot and writhing for more. As his mouth gets fucked, the world doesn't fall away. Instead, tiny details of no significance are suddenly magnified in Kurt's mind. The soreness in his knees, the tiny red light on the bookshelf, the wet sounds it makes whenever Dave thrusts in.

The words tumbling out of Dave's mouth, harsh and ragged.

"_That's _it," Dave exhales, using his grip on Kurt's hair to jerk his head forward and back; simulating an eager participant. The motion makes it even harder for Kurt to breathe; makes him feel like little more than a doll being played with. A little whimper escapes his throat before he can stop himself. Spit is staring to leak out of the corners of his mouth.

"You just – fuck, Kurt, _yeah _– need to realize, babe, how _lucky _you are –" says Dave, cutting off into a groan and snapping his hips forward. The movement is so hard it almost sends Kurt flying backwards, hands flying back to brace against the ground while Dave keeps his head in place. The thrusts are coming harder now, and if his throat would let him he'd be choking up bile. The steady in-and-out as Dave shoves his cock down Kurt's throat is undeniably brutal.

Saliva is filling Kurt's mouth _too fast too much_, and he tries to pull back in order to swallow it down – but Dave just lets out a tiny growl and clamps down on his hair, keeping him in place. The spit starts to slide over his chin, and his eyes are watering, and _Kurt can't breathe._ Can't get enough air in throat his nose with this pace, and Dave's cock gagging him up.

"I keep you safe," groans Dave from above him, sweat trickling down his stomach and body starting to clench. Kurt's jaw is aching_, seizing, _and dizziness reeling at his head has nothing to do with the curse. "P-protect you and love you and keep you close forever and all you have to do is _take it, _Kurt, just _take it." _

Kurt lets out a wet, strangled noise – _I can't breathe, I can't __**breathe **_– as his legs ache and his hands scrabble against the wood floors, and that's all it takes. Dave grabs the back of his head and slams him in close, Kurt's nose shoved practically into Dave's stomach as his cock pulses and spurts deep in Kurt's throat. Vile bitterness hits the back of his throat, and if Kurt was physically capable he would be _retching. _

Hands twisted hard in Kurt's hair, Dave lets out a blissful exhalation. Kurt reaches up to try to claw at Dave's pants because his face is soaked in tears and spit and he _can't breathe_ and Dave isn't letting him pull away, and the world is starting to blur out around the edges and stars are going off behind his eyelids.

"Swallow, babe," Dave whispers faintly, and Kurt does so without a second thought. The substance is musky-bitter-almost-_sterile_ in a strange way, thick and awful as it slides down. And finally – _finally _– Dave lets go of his head. Lets him tug back and tumble onto his back on the floor, drawing in a massive wet _gasp _of air and choking-not-choking at nothing, trying to draw more oxygen into his aching lungs.

Sprawled across the ground with his face streaked with damp and the aftertaste of _Dave's come _in his mouth, Kurt breathes hard and fast in an attempt to get his wind back. But the revulsion –the horror, the ache in his jaw, the _disgust _– it's all still his. It hasn't been lessened, or tainted, or shoved aside. Every nerve in his body is tingling with hatred and contempt.

_Done._

He hears rather than sees Dave come closer, gentle footsteps on wood floor, until the larger boy drops down beside him – and pulls Kurt into his arms.

"There we go, baby," says Dave comfortingly, scooping Kurt up and pulling his body up against him. Ear pressed against Dave's chest, Kurt can feel his heart pounding post-orgasm in his chest. Dave tuts lightly. "All done now. That wasn't so bad, right? My Kurt..."

One of his large hands strokes over the side of Kurt's neck. Kurt shudders away from the touch, face twisting into an expression of furious disdain that he knows Dave cannot see from this angle. His throat feels raw and sore, and he's still breathing harder than normal.

"I'm sorry I got a little rough there," says Dave sadly, fingers rubbing gently at Kurt's throat. It feels vulnerable, exposed. "I just... it makes me so scared when you say things like that, you know? Kurt, you _have _stop saying things like that." His grip tightens around Kurt's shoulders in a long, hard squeeze.

"Why can't you just make this _easy _for us, Kurt?" Dave asks, sounding far-away. Contemplative. "Why can't you just accept that this is the way things are now? It would make everything so much better. For you, for me. For _us_." He presses a kiss absently to the top of Kurt's head. "I love you so much, and... and it would be so much _easier _if..."

Dave gives his head a shake. He takes hold of Kurt by the shoulders, pulling him up so that they're face to face. Before he can _look _Kurt fully in the eye, he grabs the back of Kurt's neck and pulls him in for a hard kiss. His lips are unforgiving and full of some unknown desperation. Dave clutches at the back of Kurt's head in almost the exact same way he did five minutes ago; when he was slamming Kurt's head forward onto his cock _harderfasterdeeper. _Kurt doesn't respond in the slightest to the touch, completely rigid as Dave kisses him with everything he has. It's demanding, yes. But also sad; even wistful.

When Dave finally pulls away, he presses one last little kiss against Kurt's wet lips like a promise. There is something tugging at his expression that Kurt cannot identify. It mixes together with the longing and regret already there – and, more terrible than anything, love.

Kurt hadn't wanted to believe, for the longest time, that Dave felt anything real for him. Hadn't wanted to acknowledge the fact that someone who _loved _him, who was supposed to _care _about him, could do something so awful. Could disregard everything Kurt wanted for his own selfishness. But Kurt can no longer deny that Dave loves it. It's broken, certainly. Twisted and sick and wrong, but it is there. It's real.

And that is more terrifying than anything.

After a moment Dave laughs lightly, swiping a thumb over Kurt's cheek.

"In any case, that was _amazing_, babe. Those _lips_ of yours, wrapped around me like that... god, it was..." Dave chuckles, hand drifting lower. "I actually just came back to grab my books for last period, so I'm gonna have to head out. Otherwise..." He strokes Kurt through the thin material of his slacks. Kurt shudders, and Dave makes a quietly pleased _mmmm _noise in response. "I'll take care of you when I get back. Stay in here until I come back, okay? I'll grab something from the cafeteria for you."

Gently sliding Kurt's body back onto the ground, Dave stands and turns to leave. He looks composed, together. Apparently, he tidied and re-zipped himself when Kurt was on the floor trying desperately to breathe. Dave crouches down low to kiss him one last time – soft and sweet and satisfied – before he leaves.

The door shuts softly. Kurt sits on the ground with a dull buzz ringing in his ears.

_You're a whore_, says a voice in the back of his head. Not vicious at all, just... matter-of-fact. He pushes the feeling down. Pushes the disgust and the hysteria attempting to bubble up inside his throat _down, down, down _because now simply isn't the time.

With the promise of _later, later you can think about it_ hardening over his heart, Kurt sits and breathes and waits.

* * *

><p>An hour and a half later, standard-issue school loafers crunching earth and twigs beneath them, Kurt half-jogs through the sparse woods that edge along the outskirts of the Dalton Academy campus. Although little more than a dusting of slender saplings past the track field, the idea had been for the trees to provide had least some privacy for what is to come.<p>

The urge to sprint keeps flaring up in bursts, and he can feel himself starting to get slightly out of breath, hair beginning to fall out of place. Logically, Kurt knows he has enough time to get to the meeting place before anything starts to happen. The persistent note of _what if I don't make it _continues to pound along his mind regardless.

Thankfully, only a few moments later the clearing becomes visible up ahead. The worn-looking wooden shed is the only structure; it is weather-beaten, and the planks along the base are still dark with moisture and earth from the last rain. Blaine is the clearing's only occupant. He stands, the dark of his hair and clothes out of place against the airiness of the woods, with worry etched along his brow. The look of relief on his face when Kurt comes into view is practically palatable.

"Hey," breathes Blaine, looking bolstered at Kurt's arrival. "Did you send it?"

Pace slowing, Kurt winds himself down to a quick walk but does not stop until he is standing less than a foot away from Blaine. Face only slightly flushed and only a little out of breath, Kurt feels an out-of-place burst of gratitude for Dalton's comprehensive physical education program.

"Done," responds Kurt, giving his head a little shake.

"How long do we have?"

"Probably fifteen minutes?" Kurt reaches into his pocket to pull out his phone. He double checks the time, then nods. "I'll get inside the shed in a minute just in case, though. Better safe than sorry."

Intending to spout off some kind of sarcastic comment, Kurt glances up – but is stopped in his tracks by the look on Blaine's face. There is concern there, amid the furrowed brows and darkened eyes. There is worry, and remorse, and a quiet shock at the way the world is that makes Kurt's heart ache.

There is also pity.

"Are you sure you're okay?" asks Blaine softly.

"_Don't_," says Kurt, shaking his head frantically. His voice is harder than he intends for it to be, because he _can't _think about that right now. It's hard enough to ignore the ache in his jaw and the way his stomach won't stop twisting, a remnant of the sticky bitterness inside. He doesn't need Blaine reminding him, too. "Just don't, okay? Later."

Blaine opens his mouth to speak before closing it again. His shoulders slump, and something in that change of posture reminds Kurt strongly of a kicked puppy. "... all right," Blaine murmurs, quiet and reluctant. Biting down on his lip, Kurt racks his mind for something to say to distract him.

"You're sure no one's going to come by here, right?" he asks, leaving the bait for Blaine to take if he wants it. The secrecy of this place is something they've already discussed to death this afternoon, but Blaine is easy to distract when he wants to be.

Sure enough, Blaine shakes his head. "No. This used to be the groundskeeper's shed a few years ago, when the school board decided having one on the main stretch would be 'unseemly'. Having it way out here was pretty impractical, though, so they installed a new one behind the main building last year. Nothing important is even kept inside anymore."

Nodding as though the information is new to him, Kurt reaches out and places a hand one Blaine's shoulder.

"You don't..." he begins, voice faltering. Because it's hard to believe that only a few hours ago, he was slumped in this boy's arms, clinging and crying and completely undone. So much has happened since then. But if Blaine wants to back out... Kurt takes a deep breath. "Blaine. If you don't want to do this you don't have to, okay?"

"I do," Blaine maintains at once, letting out a humourless laugh. "God, do I ever. He's... he's done so much to you, Kurt. He deserves to be called out. He deserves to be called out by _you_, but..."

"But I'm a bit of a liability, I know." One suggestion of how easy it would be for Dave to control Kurt were he to confront him in person was all it had taken to eliminate that option. "And before you ask again: _yes, _I want to stay here while it happens. Just in case anything goes wrong." Kurt glances down at his phone, and anxiety bursts inside his chest. "Okay. Okay, it's time. I'm going to get inside now, so just... be careful, okay?"

"I will," says Blaine, and there is an awful moment where Blaine makes a half-aborted movement toward him; as though to step forward and pull Kurt into a hug. And god, more than anything in the world, Kurt wants that. Wants to be safe and warm and _held _by Blaine. Tight against his chest and with the smell of Blaine's aftershave teasing along his nostrils. Tucked up in Blaine's arms, where nothing bad can really happen.

Embraced by someone who actually means it.

Before anything can happen, though, Blaine stops himself. Freezing in place, the smaller boy exhales nervously – and indicates toward the shed. Without another word, Kurt opens the door and conceals himself inside.

It isn't exactly pleasant. The wood around him smells of rain and rot and earth, and out of the corner of Kurt's eye he catches the barest glimpse of several insects along the wall as they scutter out of sight. The only light comes from the crack beneath the door and a large, old-fashioned keyhole. Most of the space inside the shed is taken up by what seems to be a broken lawnmower, every inch covered coppery rust. Fortunately, he's slender enough to squeeze into the space directly in front of the door without too much trouble.

Crouching down low and only wincing slightly for the fate of his trousers – they're school issue and tacky and terrible, but some things are just instinctual – Kurt closes one eye in order to peer through the keyhole. The view is only partial and Blaine's back is toward him, but at least it's something.

Feeling very much like a character in a children's spy thriller, Kurt watches Blaine stand alone in the clearing. The dark navy and black of his uniform is a marked contrast against the yellows, greens, and browns of the surrounding foliage. He watches as Blaine stands, rocking impatiently from foot to foot after the first five minutes. Time drags and pulls as they wait, and wait, and Kurt is just beginning to wonder if they've made some kind of mistake when he hears a noise coming from the direction of the school.

Blaine must hear it, too, because the change that comes over him is instantaneous. As though there is an invisible cord connected to the top of his head tugging upwards, Blaine straightens up as tall as he can. He stops fidgeting at once, placing his feet in a strong stance beneath him. Even from Kurt's bad vantage point, he can see Blaine setting his shoulders back.

Before Kurt can even register what is happening, Dave Karofsky is crashing through the trees. Frantic, with his feet hitting the ground hard: another dark blur on the light landscape.

"_Kurt_," Dave chokes out, stumbling over some root or dip the ground. And for a split second, Kurt feels _guilty_. Because even from far away, Kurt can see that the look on Dave's face is one of heart-stopping terror. His voice is wrung-out with barely-concealed panic, and there is a franticness to his movement that Kurt somehow thinks has nothing to do with fear of having his sexuality revealed.

_Don't you feel guilty. Don't you _dare _feel guilty. _

When Dave stumbles into the clearing, his expression shifts. The fear doesn't go away; instead it seems to merge into some sort of frightened anger, dangerous and harsh in its volatility. The broad boy comes closer to Blaine, eyes flashing, and for the first time Kurt feels a ripple of unease.

"Where _is_ he, Anderson?" Dave practically shouts, a hint of hysteria edging at his voice. "I swear to fucking god, you _tell_ me where he is –"

"I see you got my note." Blaine's voice is the epitome of control; calm, collected. Kurt can't see Blaine's face from this angle, and his voice is muffled from projecting in the opposite direction, but his posture remains entirely unintimidated.

For a moment, Kurt can see the note as clearly as though it was right in front of his eyes. Its contents had been a joint decision, huddled together in Blaine's dorm room, and they'd spent enough time debating over the exact wording that Kurt could repeat it word for word. In the end, they had used Blaine's laptop and printer to avoid using either of their handwriting.

After Dave had left Kurt sprawled on the floor of their dorm room, it had been less than a minute before Blaine had knocked at the door. They'd gathered up the most important of Kurt's belongings to store in Blaine's room and left the note – dark, neat words on clean white paper – on Dave's bed.

_The old groundskeeper's shed, 4:15.  
>We need to talk.<em>

Although he had expected that returning to the room and finding it empty – no Kurt waiting on the bed, hands folded, patiently awaiting his return— would make Dave agitated, he hadn't expected _this_. The power of Dave's body is on full display like this; posturing, defensive. It makes Kurt nervous, and in combination with the way his legs are starting to cramp from keeping still he can't stop himself from fidgeting anxiously.

It's so surreal, seeing Dave and Blaine in the same space. Watching two completely separate parts of his life interact in this way – two people that he'd worked hard and_ fought_ to keep as far away from one another as possible – is something he never thought he'd get to see outside of naively hopeful daydreams.

"Yeah, I got your fucking note," Dave's saying, lip curling into a sneer. "Now if you don't tell me where the hell Kurt is –"

"You're not going to be seeing Kurt anymore," Blaine enunciates clearly, voice growing louder. "You're not going to _touch _Kurt anymore, Karofsky."

At once, Dave stiffens. And Kurt _knows _that expression on his face; it's the same one he gets whenever he catches Kurt trying to evade one of his orders with a loophole. The same one that would steal across his face whenever he'd see Kurt chatting with a classmate in a crowded hallway. It's Dave, furious, attempting to school his face into something normal.

Dave lets out a croaky, weak laugh. "I have no idea what you're –" he begins, but Blaine doesn't let him finish.

"I know what you did," spits Blaine, fury and hatred and _disgust _dripping from every syllable, and Kurt doesn't think he's ever seen Blaine this angry. His body has completely tensed up, and his hands are curled into fists at his sides. "You're sick, you know that? How _dare _you. You're a _rapist_, Karofsky –"

Slightly too quickly, Dave throws his hands in the air in an expression of faux-surrender. "I'm a _what_?" he asks, barking out an disdainful laugh. "Kurt is my _boyfriend_, Anderson, I told you. Has been for months. You saw yourself how much he likes what we do together." Guilt and disgust ripples dully in the base of Kurt's stomach. "So if all you have are empty accusations, maybe you can tell me where the _fuck _he is."

"You know, I was actually willing to believe that for a little while..." says Blaine, before his voice gets so low that Kurt can barely make out anything he's saying. He strains at the shed door, listening so hard it almost hurts. Blaine's words are rushed and furious, but Kurt is almost certain he can make out "curse", "forced", and "Kurt" amid the onslaught.

It doesn't take much to figure out Blaine's accusation. Dave's eyes blow wide as the shorter boy speaks, eyebrows flying up high on his forehead. For the briefest moment, an expression of _panic _come over him before it's hastily covered up again. When Blaine finishes speaking, there is a long pause.

"Yeah, well," laughs Dave, hard and empty. "That's fucking ridiculous. Do you even know how _stupid _you sound?" Dave takes a step closer to Blaine, looking down on him with superior disgust. "You're just jealous, aren't you? You _want _him. He's mine and you _want _him." He lets out a tiny huff of laughter. "You're pathetic. Good luck trying to prove that little story to anyone."

"I don't have to," says Blaine coolly, andhere it comes. Absently, Kurt realizes that he's holding his breath. Muscles tensed hard and strung up with anticipation. "I have something better."

"And what's that?" Dave scoffs, crossing his arms defensively over his chest.

"This afternoon,_ David_. What happened between you and Kurt in your dorm room. We filmed it."

The hand-held camera Blaine had borrowed from Thad, tucked in behind the books on the shelf. Red light softly glowing as it recorded everything.

The look on Dave's face freezes in place. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but no words come. Horror is seeping into his eyes. "What?"

"Yeah," says Blaine, sounding vindicated. "And it caught everything. When he told you to stop and you didn't. When you forced him onto his knees and _assaulted _him. We have it all on tape_."_

"I... I don't... there's been some kind of mistake. Kurt –"

"—was the one who asked me for help. And as we speak that video is on its way to a number of people. There's a note attached, too, explaining what to do if something happens to one of us."

The two sets of envelopes Kurt had just deposited at the campus mail room before coming into the woods. One addressed to _Burt Hummel_, the other to _Marita and William Anderson_. Each envelope stuffed with a CD and a hand-written explanation from their respective son.

"So you _leave_ _Kurt alone, _Karofsky," Blaine continues, and Kurt can see his hands clenching again at his sides. "Make up some reason and get yourself out of Dalton, because if you come anywhere _near_ us again we'll send that video to the police. To your _parents_, David. And I'm positive you don't want that."

The silence that hangs between the two boys is thick and impossible. The tiny noises of insects and wind through leaves is amplified on the air. Blaine looks tense but stands tall, unwavering – as though he'd wanted anything to do with this plan in the first place.

In reality, Blaine had begged – had _pleaded _with Kurt to find another way. As if there was still something left in him worth saving, protecting. When Kurt had vetoed that particular objection, Blaine had spent precious time trying to convince him to send the video to the police right away. Again, Kurt had refused. Blaine's confidence in the police to _do the right thing _was sweet, but naive in the extreme. Born of money and privilege and being _given _things all his life instead of having them taken away. Because if it comes down to it, and they have to give the video to the authorities... well. Kurt would prefer to avoid the_ questions_ and the _denials _and the _calling into question of the evidence_ if they could just frighten Dave off instead.

A small, absurd amount of _hope _is beginning to curl around the edges of his mind.

_It's almost over, _Kurt thinks in disbelief. _It's really almost over. _

"Kurt," Dave chokes out, shaking his head. "No. No, Kurt – Kurt wouldn't do this to me. He _wouldn't."_

"Kurt hates you," says Blaine in disgust. "Why wouldn't he?"

And in the space of twenty seconds, Kurt realizes they've made a horrible mistake.

"_You_," snarls Dave, shaking hard and drawing himself up to his full height. Towering over Blaine by at least a head, and for the first time Kurt realizes how _small _Blaine is in comparison. Compact and tiny in front of Dave's bulk. Dave, who has gone from shocked disbelief to raging fury in a matter of seconds. "It's you, isn't it? This is all your fault. You've been – you've been _talking _to him, putting _ideas _in his head."

"No," says Blaine, clearly still attempting to imbue the words with confidence. But his leg twitches as if to step backward, and there's a waver in his voice that he can't seem to control. "Kurt doesn't want to see you –"

"_Kurt loves me_," Dave yells, his voice cracking. He shakes his head frantically back and forth, and his hand curls into a fist. "I'm gonna kill you," he mutters. There's a half-mad look in his eye as he takes a step closer.

"If you touch me," shouts Blaine, taking an involuntary step back. " – the video–!"

"I'm gonna fucking _kill_ you!" bellows Dave, charging forward and slamming Blaine in the face with his fist before the other boy can even raise his hands in defence. The fist connects with a sickening _crunch_, and Blaine – who goes to a private school, and has a wealthy family, and has never won a fight in his entire life – goes crashing down onto the forest floor.

Horrified, Kurt watches him fall as if in slow motion – and realizes how very, very badly they've miscalculated. By making Dave mad enough not to care about the consequences; for taunting him. By doing this far away from any crowds or onlookers, where no one can hear them or run to their defence. Privacy had seemed so _important,_ but now it seemed like the stupidest thing they could have done.

Kurt hesitates for a half-second, stunned and desperately willing Blaine to get back on his feet. But Dave is on top of the other boy too fast for that, pinning him to the ground with almost comical ease. Blaine struggles, tries to scramble back, but it isn't enough. Dave pulls back his fist and crashing it down into Blaine's face again, and _again_, and Kurt can't see what happens next because he's already flinging the door open and throwing himself into the clearing.

"_Stop it_!" Kurt screams, sprinting as hard as he can. He grabs hold of the arm, managing to halt it mid-air probably due only to the surprise of his arrival. Dave struggles for the briefest of seconds before looking up – and his eyes widen. Blaine groans beneath them, struggling slightly, and Kurt thinks he can see bright red beginning to run down his face.

"Kurt – what –?" The barest hint of a hopeful smile tugs at Dave's mouth.

"Please don't hurt him," says Kurt in a rush, terror and guilt clutching at his chest. Because it's his fault, it's _all his fault, _and Blaine didn't have to help him. Didn't have to go along with his stupid, terrible plan. He clutches onto Dave's arm as hard as he can.

The smile disappears from Dave's face. His lips tighten: he glances away, looking off at some unknown point in the distance as a shadow falls over his eyes. Dave takes a deep breath, letting it out in one long exhalation.

"Kurt," says Dave, slowly and carefully. Blaine starts to struggle harder beneath him, and Dave pins him down hard and fast with his knees. The ruthlessness of his actions is so, so different from his quiet tone. "Let go of my arm."

"No," Kurt chants, already feeling the nausea beginning to build. "No, no, no – Dave, please, you can't _do _this –"

"_Let go of my arm_!" shouts Dave, abrupt and unexpected. Kurt's hands lose their grip and before he can even think, Dave is _shoving _him one-handed as hard as he can. Kurt shouts, falls backwards onto the clearing floor. His back collides with the ground, partially knocking the wind out of him. He gasps for air, but as soon as he hits the ground Kurt struggles to get to his feet again. "And _stay there_," bellows Dave, and at once Kurt may as well be glued in place.

Dave looks at him for a long, hard moment before turning his gaze back to Blaine. Cricking his neck, Dave draws back his fist. Kurt gasps at the realization of what is about to happen a split second before Dave's fist crunches into Blaine's nose again. Blaine _screams, _voice muffled, and tries to writhe himself away. It's useless.

"No!" shrieks Kurt, straining as hard as he can against the invisible restrains. Clawing at the ground, trying to pull himself forward, trying to _get to Blaine. _Dave's hits him again, and this time his fist pulls back streaked with blood. "Dave, stop it, _please!"_

For a second, Kurt thinks it might have worked. Dave pushes himself off Blaine's prone form, pulling himself up into a standing position. Groaning wetly through the blood pouring out of his nose, Blaine rolls onto his side attempts to crawl away. There is a pause – before Dave pulls back and _kicks _Blaine in the stomach as hard as he can. The scream that Blaine lets out is muffled by his arms, but the sound of it is more painful to Kurt than any physical harm could be; Blaine's voice is like skin dragged over sharp rocks.

"No," sobs Kurt, and he can't stop the tears from streaming down his face. He wills himself to move, but his body won't obey. "No, _please_."

"It's – his _– _fault," grunts Dave in between hits, slamming his foot into Blaine's ribs between every word. Blaine tries to roll away onto his back; Dave follows and slams his foot down onto Blaine's hand, splayed on the ground. Blaine _shrieks, _trying to wrench his hand free and bury his face into the ground all at pulls back and wails on Blaine's side as hard as he can before rounding to face Kurt: his brown eyes are frantic, edged with hysteria.

"You – you were never like this before he came along, Kurt," Dave mutters, seeming not to notice how wrecked his hand is. He's breathing hard from the fight, but all of his attention is on Kurt. "We need to – we need to take care of it, and then everything can go back to normal, okay?"

"Please," Kurt begs desperately, watching with horror as Blaine tries to curl in on himself while Dave's attention is focused on him instead. "You're bigger than him. He can' fight back, Dave, just – just please let him go. _Please_."

From the ground, Blaine tries to speak – perhaps to order Kurt to run, to get _out. _But the blood's running into his mouth and choking him, and what is almost definitely a broken nose renders him unintelligible.

All that Kurt can think about is the fact that Dave isn't hurting Blaine anymore. Blinking hard through the tears, Kurt looks up to see Dave coming towards him.

In that moment, the expression on Dave's face is the worst thing that Kurt has ever seen. Worse than Blaine bloodied and broken on the ground, worse than his dad pale and unconscious in the hospital –even worse than watching his mother get lowered into the ground. It is soft. Reassuring. Calming, as though intending to speak with a small child.

And there is a resignation in his eyes that makes Kurt's whole body recoil.

"Hey," murmurs Dave, slowly lowering himself down into a kneeling position in front of Kurt. He reaches up to cradle Kurt's tear-streaked face with his un-bloodied hand, and Kurt can feel that his hands are shaking violently. "Hey, babe, it's okay. It's okay now, yeah?" His thumb stokes along Kurt's cheek. "You and me – we're gonna run, all right? Together, just like it was before. I'll leave him here and walk away, but you have to come with me."

"No," says Kurt faintly, shaking his head. His own voice sounds high and terrified on the still air. A few feet away, he thinks he hears Blaine groan out a garbled word of protest.

"_Yes_," Dave insists, nodding his head insistently. There is unrelenting affection in the lines of his face. "Kurt... we're going to run until no one can find us anymore. And it's going to be great, but –" Dave's voice catches, and Kurt is shocked to see that there are _tears _in his eyes. Dave presses his lips together, shakes his head, and continues. "— but I'm going to have to stop being so easy on you, baby."

Terror pulses through Kurt's body with every breath, with every heartbeat. He shakes his head, but Dave's hand remains firm along his cheek. "No. No, Dave, please. Please let us go, just – what are you _talking_ ab –?"

"We could've made it work," croaks Dave, one tear escaping and sliding down his ruddy cheek. "But – but I can't _trust _you like this, babe." As though in intense pain, Dave squeezes his eyes shut. His chin scrunches up and his whole face is turning red with some kind of emotion. When Dave opens his eyes again, there is a sadness there that Kurt doesn't understand. "So I'm going to have to make a you I _can _trust."

And that sentence doesn't make any sense. _Can't _make any sense, not unless – unless –

"_No_!" Kurt screams as hard as he can, throwing himself away from Dave but he _can't move. _Thrashing wildly, mindlessly against the restraint with his whole body. Desperate to get away, please, God, let him get away – "_No_!" he wails, but Dave has him by the shoulders now. He flails the hold, but it's no good. He's too small, too weak, and even if he could break the hold the curse keeps him firmly in place. "_No_!"

"I'm sorry," Dave chokes, more tears streaming down his face now too. "I'm sorry, there isn't another way. I love you, Kurt. I love you more than _anything_. We can be happy this way, I promise. _You'll _be happier this way." He grabs the back of Kurt's neck and holds his thrashing form still long enough to force a hard kiss against his lips, pressing and claiming and taking and _apologizing_. Kurt tries to pull away, but it's no good, and before he even realizes what's happening Dave is moving away again.

"Don't," Kurt sobs. "_Please_."

"I'm so sorry," whispers Dave, tears in his eyes. He closes them tight, holds Kurt close, and whispers: "Forget everything. Forget your family, your life, Anderson, everything. Only remember _me_, and how much you love me." Dave's voice cracks as he forces out the last of the words, blinking hard. "Love me, Kurt. Forget everything else."

A few paces away Blaine shrieks something out, and Dave is barking something back, but none of it matters anymore. Kurt collapses onto the ground in a tumble of limbs as the command washes over him, and there's no way out. There's no loophole to find, nothing to hold onto. He pushes against it anyways, fights with everything he is because _everything he is _is being taken away from him, stripped down and peeled away and there's _nothing he can do_. His body starts to shake uncontrollably, and he slams his hand over his eyes to block out the light because it _hurts. _

And all at once, Kurt can see it in his head –

—_Dave leading him out the clearing by the hand, glassy-eyed and bewildered as they leave Blaine on the ground, bleeding and hurting and completely alone. Only he has no idea who the man on the ground is, and when he asks Dave tells him to hush, babe, no one important and guides them to pack their bags –_

— **sickness twisting in his gut and wrenching at him as he writhes on the ground, struggling struggling struggling struggling and it hurts as though it's being turned inside out and stretched wrong, all wrong –**

— _finding an apartment in a city with no name after a long bus ride to nowhere, and Kurt putters around cleaning the house and making dinner for when Dave gets home because he loves Dave more than anything, and that's what people do when they love each other and staring at the walls when there isn't anything to do and just waiting for Dave to come home from his job so he has someone to be again, never knowing the address or what it looks like beyond the living room window –_

—**dizzy, so dizzy, never going to stop being twisty and upside down and the world won't stop spinning, like a vacuum around him sucking him in and never stopping **_**never stopping**_** –**

—_Dave sliding into him at night in their bed with the sheets Dave picked out in the apartment Dave found and just pictures of the two of them littering the bedside table. Groaning into Kurt's neck as he pushes all the way inside, nonsense words about how _good_ he feels and how _amazing _he is as Kurt moans back, arching his back into it and loving every second. Truly loving it, because Dave told him to and Dave knows what's right and he's never known anything else –_

—**his head pounding straining breaking in his hands, skull shattering into fragments and the insides liquefying as he screams into empty air and **_**don't give in, you can't give in **_**–**

—_no Christmas cards because there's no family, no address book full of names and places because there are no names and places outside of this. His father never knowing where he went, and Kurt never knowing he had a father, or a mother, knowing when his dad dies or Carole or Finn or Blaine –_

— **neurons flashing in his mind, attempting to rewrite pathways and cancel out histories and block it block it block it OUT, make it STOP, cling to memories like a lifesaver at sea and **_**don't let go**_** –**

—_and then one day a quiet piece of paper and a few witnesses from Dave's work and a justice of the peace and it's all legal and easy and straightforward these days, and Dave clutching him to his chest and kissing him and muttering _it's the happiest day of my life _and saying it back because it is, it must be, Dave says it is and –_

— **getting darker dimmer harder **_**dying, **_**you're dying, let it happen let him do it and –**

"_NO_!"

Something is smashing breaking _shattering_ inside Kurt's mind, and he doesn't know what's happening. Only knows that he can't, he won't, he _won't do it. _Won't let himself be drowned away and tossed aside like something that doesn't matter, an empty person with his face for Dave to love and hold and kiss and fuck, because it's just is not going to happen. Kurt won't _let_ it happen, andit doesn't matter if he dies fighting it because dying is better than living like that and he just _isn't going to let it happen_ –

And all at once, the noise stops. The screaming and shouting and explosions inside his mind blink away, and the stillness of the clearing returns.

It is like clouds opening up to see the sun. Something... something has broken inside Kurt's mind like a damn, and water has come crashing out and purged the pain away. He feels... empty. As though he's missing something that has always been there, something deep inside. Sweating and trembling and shaking like an infant, every bone and muscle aching as though it's been broken down and set to rights again, Kurt slowly and tentatively opens his eyes.

The bright blue of the sky looks back at him, obscured by the yellow-green of sunlight streaming through leaves. The canopy. The clearing.

Dave.

_Blaine. _

Gradually, cautiously, Kurt pushes himself up into a sitting position. Dave is still crouched in front of him, tears streaming down his face and wiping them frantically away.

"Kurt?" asks Dave, voice broken and frantic and terrified. A small, false smile pulls at his trembling lips. A few feet away on the ground Blaine is choking, attempting to shout out something unintelligible. Trying to push himself upright with his good hand, and looking so frightened Kurt can barely breathe. "B-baby?" asks Dave, stammering slightly. He looks Kurt up and down nervously. "How... how are you feeling?"

Experimentally, Kurt inches himself forward on the ground. There is no pain. No nausea, no invisible restrains keeping him in place. His body doesn't rebel against him: instead, he moves forward easily. As though it has always been this simple.

It hadn't been enough, before. Being hidden away, or cut off from his family and friends, or having his mind twisted and wrecked and broken down. Being forced by Dave; letting his body be used like a toy while his mind screamed in silence. The pain, the humiliation, the terror. None of it had been enough.

But the threat of having everything that made him _himself _stripped away... everything that made him _Kurt Hummel _stripped and wiped clean and stolen... _that _had been enough.

And there is nothing – absolutely _nothing _– about the man in front of Kurt to frighten him anymore.

When Kurt pushes himself up onto his knees, Dave flinches. There is so much fear and uncertainty in his face, Kurt realizes now. So much self-hate, and doubt, and shattered self. The nightmare of the last two months is gone: all that remains of it is this scared, lonely little boy who breaks the things he loves. Dave's eyes follow him apprehensively, clearly waiting with bated breath for him to speak. Without hesitation, Kurt reaches up and rests his hand along the side of Dave's face.

"David," he says, quiet and firm, with no room for argument whatsoever. "David, it's over now."

"W-what?" Dave asks, in a tiny voice, and the size difference between the two of them might as well not even exist. Shrunken in on himself and shaking, Dave seems small compared to the confidence and control Kurt can feel emanating from his own body like a physical force. "Kurt... I don't..."

"It's done," says Kurt, voice high and clear and matter-of-fact. "I broke it. You can't control me anymore, David. And you can't ignore what you did."

"Kurt, please, stop it. Stop... stop saying that. I love you –"

"I don't love you." The words are truer than anything Kurt has ever said in his life. "I never did, David. And you couldn't make me."

"No..." denies Dave childishly, shaking his head back and forth. Kurt's hand remains firm along his cheek, and he doesn't look away from Dave's eyes. Holds their gaze hard and firm and unrelenting.

"Everything you did, you did for yourself," says Kurt, shaking his head. His throat catches. "You... you hurt me more badly than I think I can ever say, David. I wanted to die. I wanted you to kill me. And now... now, you're going to leave."

"Kurt –"

"You can't hurt me anymore, David. I won't let you." Slowly, Kurt pulls his hand away. Dave half-sobs as the contact is lost. But Kurt isn't finished yet. "I'm stronger than you are," Kurt says, shaking his head. "I always was. You're weak. You're weak, and awful, and you _repulse _me."

Stumbling, Dave jolts back and makes it to his feet. Arms around himself like a child fighting off cold, he stares down into Kurt's eyes with absolute terror in his face. Kurt stares back, cold and unforgiving, at the wreck of a human being in front of him. Tears are streaking down Dave's face once more, and his whole body is wracked with shivers. He is shaking his head noiselessly, wordlessly.

"Now _run_," hisses Kurt, voice lowering into a heartless whisper. "Run as hard as you can, and hope to _hell _you can run fast enough to forget this. Because I can hurt you so much more than you can hurt me. And if I ever, _ever_ see you again – if I ever _hear _of you again – I will _end_ you."

Without speaking a single word, Dave chokes out a sob – and nods. Tears drip down his cheeks as he takes one step backward, and then another.

"_Go_!" Kurt screams, high and furious and horrifying as Dave turns and flees. Stumbling over his own feet in his rush to get away, not turning around to take one last look as he goes. Flying through the trees in the opposite direction from the school. Toward the highway, and out of Kurt's life. "_Run_!"

It takes less than a minute for the dark blur that is Dave Karofsky to disappear into the foliage, and only a short while after that before Kurt can no longer hear his footsteps on the forest floor. And Kurt knows, with complete certainty that he cannot explain, that he is never going to see Dave again.

Kurt doesn't have time to let any of it sink in, though, because a few feet away Blaine is trying to sit up. Groaning in pain and gasping wetly, blood still streaming down from his nose, and muttering.

"Kurt," he thinks Blaine is saying, but it's hard to tell through all the blood. The word is unclear, stifled. "Kurt –"

Immediately, Kurt scrambles over to him. Crouching down on the forest floor, all the anger and fury and power gets pushed down inside. His voice lowers, turning gentler.

"Hey," Kurt says softly, raking his eyes over Blaine's body to take stock of the situation. Blaine's face is a mottled picture of bloodied cuts and sure-to-be bruises: his nose is definitely broken, still streaming blood, and Kurt thinks he might be looking at at least one black eye. Blaine keeps trying to push himself up, but Kurt gently guides him back down to the ground. The way Blaine keeps wincing every time he tries to sit up says that there might be something wrong with his ribs, and his right hand is cradled right up against his chest. "Hey, honey, it's okay. You're okay. _We're okay_."

Placing one hand on Blaine's shoulder to gently keep him down, Kurt reaches into his pocket to pull out his phone. At the motion, Blaine makes a confused noise.

"Wha –?" Blaine asks stupidly, blinking away sweat as it drips into his eyes.

"I'm calling the school. I don't think I can get you back there by myself, and I don't even know if you have a concussion. The nurse will know what to – yes? Yes, hello, this is Kurt Hummel. I'm a student, and my friend needs help right now..."

Once Kurt is finished passing on the most important information – where they are, who's hurt, how bad the injury is – Kurt hangs up the phone. And then they wait. Clustered together on the hard ground, everything to unreal for him to even consider thinking about it yet, Kurt leans over his friend and tries his best to remember the sub-par first aid classes they had at his old school. Makes sure that Blaine is breathing all right through his mouth; rolls him onto his side so that the blood runs onto the ground and not down his throat.

Without even thinking about it, Kurt squeezes Blaine's shoulder and whispers nonsense words to the beautiful boy lying broken beneath him. Tells him _it's okay now _and _I did it, Blaine, I really did it _and _they're going to be here soon. _Stroking back the sweat along Blaine's forehead and making sure the other boy stays still, Kurt waits for help to come.

* * *

><p>It doesn't take long for the school nurse and three teachers to arrive. Kurt lets himself get pushed aside when they come stomping into the clearing, hovering quietly at the sidelines without ever taking his eyes off Blaine. After determining that there's no obvious concussion, they begin the process of getting Blaine back to the nurse's office until a family member can come to pick him up. It takes a little while. Getting Blaine onto his feet isn't easy, and getting him half-way across campus takes a great deal of time and patience.<p>

To Kurt, it seems like it only takes a moment before Blaine is seated on the bed in the nurse's office. The world won't stop spinning around him like a top. The sight of his friend like this – the nurse instructing Blaine to press gauze to his nose to soak up the blood, and gently feeling around his ribs for signs of a break – is almost too much. Too hard, after everything else today.

None of it feels real. The entire day feels like a dream; or, perhaps more accurately, like waking up from one. Kurt can't decide.

After briefly excusing himself from the office to make a phone call, Kurt comes back inside with red-rimmed eyes only to see two of Blaine's fingers being taped together. The curly-haired boy winces, but remains silent as it happens. He's still pressing the gauze beneath his nose with his good hand.

"How bad is it?" asks Kurt to the teacher standing next to him, hating how dazed and raw his voice sounds. The woman is older, at least in her fifties, with long brown-grey hair. She's wearing a snugly well-worn tweed coat and sensible brown heels, and Kurt is almost positive he should know her name.

"Nurse Manning says it's not so terrible, son," says the woman comfortingly, nodding to the ginger-haired nurse currently taping Blaine's fingers. "We've called his mother. She should be here soon to take him to the ER. Get those ribs checked out."

"Oh," says Kurt quietly.

_Jenkins. Her name is Mrs. Jenkins, _Kurt realizes dazedly, although he isn't sure why it matters right now at all. Mrs. Jenkins clasps his shoulder with a shockingly good grip and gives him a tight squeeze.

"Don't worry. He'll be fine," murmurs Mrs. Jenkins, before turning and heading out the door. Back to whatever she was doing beforehand, Kurt guesses. Teaching, or being on break, or in some kind of meeting. And then Kurt is left standing alone in the middle of the room, watching as his best friend gets patched up from wounds _Kurt _is the cause of.

Suddenly, Kurt feels incredibly awkward. Standing with his arms crossed in front of his unharmed body in this _too small too white _room, not knowing where to be or whether Blaine wants to see him at all. Kurt is just debating whether or not to attempt to slip unnoticed out of the room when Blaine looks up, catches his eye – and all at once, it doesn't matter about the cuts and bruises, or the broken nose, or the sprained fingers, or what might be several fractured ribs. Blaine is smiling at him with such unbelievable, undiluted happiness that it lights up the whole room.

Nurse Manning glances over in his direction, and for a second Kurt thinks he's going to be thrown out. Instead, the nurse nods at an empty chair on Blaine's other side. Unable to walk away from that smile, Kurt steps forward and lowers himself into the chair.

"There we are," says Nurse Manning competently, moving away from Blaine's hand. Blaine hisses in a breath of pain, staring down at it. "Best I can do for the moment, Mr. Anderson. The principal informs me that your mother will be arriving soon, and they'll be better equipped to deal with you at the ER. Now, how's the bleeding on your nose coming?" Blaine pulls the gauze away, and the nurse leans in close to inspect. "Not bad, not bad... one moment while I get you some ice. You should have it with you for the drive over."

The nurse stands and leaves, and all of the sudden the two of them are alone again. And Blaine... Blaine is looking at Kurt in a way that won't stop breaking his heart. Earnest and relieved and excited and so, _so_ caring.

"Kurt, you _did_ it," whispers Blaine, as soon as the nurse is out of earshot. The words are still muggy and stuffed-up-sounding, but they're more comprehensible than before. "I don't – I didn't even know that could _happen_ like that. You _did _it, I don't even believe... Kurt... Kurt, it's _over_."

There's a buzzing sound inside Kurt's head that won't stop getting louder and louder. Thrumming along his skin and tugging at his chest, ever-present and un-ignorable. Kurt can barely comprehend what Blaine is saying to him.

"Yeah," says Kurt quietly, and he winces at how high and unsteady his voice sounds. "Yeah, I...I can't believe it, I... god, Blaine, I'm so sorry." He lets out a ragged breath. "I'm so sorry this happened to you. It's my fault –"

"_No_," insists Blaine, flinching when he accidentally jostles his hand. "No, Kurt, it was worth it. I heard what he ordered you to do, and I tried to help, but... just... thank god, okay? Thank god you managed to break it."

Tears are beginning to sting at Kurt's eyes, but Blaine doesn't notice.

"And besides," says Blaine, trying to smile with the gauze pressed against his nose. He looks like he should be in too much pain to be allowed to be happy at all, but Blaine has always been one to defy expectations. "Kurt... you know how I feel about you. Of course I'd do anything to help." He lets out a laugh, but stops quickly when the movement seems to make his ribcage hurt. He winces. "Besides, this is _nothing _compared to how bad it was after my Sadie Hawkins dance last year."

And all at once it hits Kurt how little he knows Blaine. How very, very little he knows about the things that really matter: his family situation, his past, anything other than school or the Warblers or music. They've only been friends for four months, and only two of those were real. After Dave, everything was stunted and secret and pushed aside, and then Blaine had_ kissed_ him, no warning at all. And everything afterward – the frantic planning, everything going wrong, and Blaine getting hurt and _the curse being broken –_

Amid all that, he hasn't had any time at all to think about _after._

Kurt has no_ idea_ how he feels about Blaine. Not really. Not in the ways that matter.

And Kurt is almost positive that Blaine doesn't really know _him _at all.

"I can't do this."

Confusion clouds over Blaine's face, and it takes Kurt a moment to realize he's spoken the words out loud. He can't take them back, though. He won't. Kurt throat feels thick and choked. The world is getting blurry, and when he blinks a tear escapes and rolls down his cheek.

"Wait, Kurt... you can't do what?" Blaine asks. Soft and reassuring and confused, and that just makes everything harder.

"Any of it. Blaine, I can't –" Kurt lets out a deep, shaky breath. His heart hurts, and the innocently perplexed look on Blaine's face is just make the ache worse. "My dad's coming to pick me up. I called him once we got inside the school. He should be here soon."

"That's good... Kurt, I'm sure he'll be –"

"We never thought this would happen, Blaine. Not really. I thought I'd always be... so he's coming. And. And it's really important. And I just –" A sob wells up inside of him and escapes before he can help it. Hard, and making his entire body shudder, and if he starts Kurt is almost positive he won't be able to stop. "I just can't be here anymore, Blaine. Not after what happened with Da – Karofsky. And... and I just can't handle you right now."

"Me?" Blaine draws back, horrified. "How –?"

"It's too much," chokes Kurt, scrubbing away tears. "It's just too much right now. I'm... I'm going to leave Dalton. Do the rest of the semester by correspondence, challenge the exams, I don't care. I just need some _time_."

"Of course," says Blaine quietly, and Kurt realizes that the nurse has been gone for an awfully long time. "Kurt... all the time in the world, of course. But... but don't push me away. _Please_."

From inside his blazer pocket, Kurt's phone vibrates. He pulls it out and checks the message: _be there in 5 mins - Dad_. The realization that his father must be texting and driving, something he's warned Kurt against from the day they bought him his very first cell phone, makes another sob well up inexplicably in Kurt's chest. And the tears won't stop coming now. Hard and fast and he has to get _out_.

"I have to go," Kurt says in a quietly-choked voice, tears streaming down his face and shaking his head back and forth. "You... you make this so complicated, and I just _can't_, I'm sorry."

Not able to stand the devastation on Blaine's face for another second, Kurt stands and turns to leave. Walking quickly and with purpose and not looking back, never looking back. Because if he does, Kurt is almost positive that whatever is left of his heart will shatter. He makes it all the way to the door before he hesitates, clutching the door handle so hard it almost hurts.

"I'm sorry you got hurt," says Kurt, refusing to look away from the door. "And... and I'll call you when I can."

Behind him, Blaine makes a choked-off noise that Kurt can't think about. Head down, Kurt turns the handle on the door and walks out of the room.


	6. Chapter 6

_The boy runs through the sparse woods, feet pounding on the forest floor and sweat running down his forehead and neck as he goes. There's a cramp in his side and the uniform he's wearing is getting heavy and sticky and clinging to his arms, but he can't stop. Can't stop to breathe or figure out where he's going because it's over, it's all fucking over, and he has to get out get out get out __**get out**__ –_

_Thoughts of _food _and_ shelter _and_ money k_eep bursting along the edges of his mind in panic-washed moments of practicality, but none of it matters. Nothing matters because it's over, it's all fucking over. He ruined this like he ruins everything. _

_Like he was willing to ruin _him.

_**You're weak**_. _The words pound in his ears, high and beautiful and horrible. __**You're weak, and awful, and you **__**repulse **__**me**_

_The last two months are pounding in his head like a motherfucking _drum_, and he feels so sick he can barely breathe. Can't go back, can't go back –_

_There's snot running down his face, mingling with the tears and sweat, but the boy keeps running. Stripping off the navy-and-red blazer when it gets too hot – it'll just make him easy to recognize, anyways – and going at a sprint as the trees fly by. Until the foliage things and the road appears ahead, straight black asphalt to take him anywhere. He gasps out a few breaths, scans the road – and picks a direction._

* * *

><p>The door to the nurse's office shuts with a too-loud slam that makes the windows shake; they're old-fashioned and poorly sealed, and the reverberation is enough to make the glass shiver and creak in its frame. Mouth open and a million unspoken words on his tongue, Blaine sits on the bed clutching gauze to his face and replays the image of Kurt walking out the door over and over in his head. There's a lump in his throat and his eyes are stinging, and every single breath sends sharp little jolts of pain through his chest.<p>

It had all happened so _fast_. Kurt leaving, yes; one second the slender boy was there, the next he was gone, and Blaine can barely remember what he'd said. But not just that. The entire day has been like a television with the fastforward button held down; all new information and no time to handle it and speeding and rushing and planning so quickly, no time to stop and think_, _and all of it barely seems real without Kurt in the room. It's as though the world's been jolted back into regular speed, achingly slow in comparison, and Blaine doesn't know what to _do_.

He hurts. All of the aches and sharp twinges and sprained fingers and his _broken nose_, _fuck_, that hadn't seemed important at all a few seconds ago are coming back into sharp focus. None of it had mattered because Kurt had _done it, _really done it, and that was everything important in the entire world and Blaine couldn't believe it and Kurt was _free. _But now Kurt's gone. Kurt's gone and everything hurts and less than an hour ago Blaine was getting the _shit _kicked out of him by someone twice his size. He'd been so scared, too. For Kurt, for himself. Scared and on the ground and there was nothing he could do, nothing at all.

Everything Blaine's been shoving down for the past few days is starting to swell and simmer in his chest. The anxiety, the fear. The utter, utter horror at Kurt's story that he'd tried _so hard _to hide because Kurt didn't need that right now, didn't need to deal with Blaine's own freak-out when he was being raped and forced and broken down. It's all building up and pushing at his insides, a frantic desperation trying to push up and escape through his mouth. The fact that Kurt willingly let himself get assaulted this afternoon; that Blaine let it happen. The fact that it was such a _close thing_, in the clearing: so close, too, close and Kurt had almost been gone. Completely gone, hollowed out and emptied and stolen away, one hundred per cent gone forever. It had all happened, and Blaine had tried so, so hard to follow Kurt's instructions: _later, Blaine. Later. Later. Later._

But now it is later, and Kurt's not here anymore. There's suppressed hysteria bubbling up inside that Blaine can't hide anymore. It won't be pushed down.

"Hey," someone says softly, and Blaine nearly jumps out of his skin. The movement makes cruel pain twist in his chest so hard he cries out, tensing his whole body and clenching his eyes shut to stop it from happening again. "Sorry," says Nurse Manning apologetically, putting a hand on Blaine's shoulder to keep him steady. "... are you okay, Mr. Anderson?"

There's something too sad in his voice, and Blaine knows the nurse isn't really talking about his ribs.

"I –" Blaine tries to begin, but is cut off by sound of the office door flying open. He looks up – and there is his mother. Standing in the doorway wearing a stylish navy dress and pumps, she looks frantic and discomposed in a way that is so rare for her. There are a few strands escaping from the dark brown lacquer of her hair, and she's breathing hard in a way that suggests running.

"_Oh_," says Marita Anderson, voice catching and hand flying to her mouth. "Oh, darling boy."

"Mom," chokes Blaine, and she's already striding across the room. Snapping off her oversized white sunglasses as though they didn't cost a great deal of money and looking at him with such a devastated look that it makes his lip tremble.

"Your _face_," his mother whispers, crouching down in front of the bed. She reaches out with one long, elegant hand and ever-so-gently traces his hairline with her fingertips. The touch still makes Blaine wince: his entire face is practically one big bruise, and every single inch of it hurts. Marita takes a shaky breath, eyes already damp, and looks into his eyes. Blaine looks into the hazel eyes that are so, _so_ like his own; there is sadness there. Sadness, and heartbreak, and anger at the world. "Oh, beloved," she whispers, voice snagging on the endearment. "Not again."

"Mom," says Blaine again, because he thinks it's _all _he can say, and his face is hot and crumpling up and the whole room's gone blurry and _everything hurts_. Without even realizing it's happening, there's something coming hot and wet down Blaine's cheeks that won't stop, and all at once his mother's long arms are around his shoulders in the gentlest, most careful hug he can imagine. He doesn't want to cry – crying _hurts_, makes his whole chest ache and pain shoot up his back – but he just can't make himself _stop_.

"It's okay," she whispers, and the sweet smell of her perfume is filling his nose. It smells like being a child, being safe, and it just makes him cry harder. Every sob sends horrible jolts of pain through his torso, and he can't reach up to hug her back in case that hurts, too. "Darling boy, I'm here. I'm here."

Blaine cries. He cries because his whole body hurts, and because it's all too much, and because his best friend got raped today. He cries because his heart won't stop aching, and because of what very well could have happened if anything had gone differently in the clearing, and because of how _stupid _they were about everything. He doesn't know what to do to make any of this better, or if it even _can _be made better at all.

He cries because he finally can.

And Blaine understands. He really, really does. Knows that Kurt's been through more in the past months than most people go through in a lifetime; that he deserves a chance to heal without someone else's confusing emotions getting in the way. That Kurt's mind has been broken down and put back together so many times that Kurt must barely know who he is anymore, and that getting away from _everything _is probably the healthiest thing he could possibly do. Kurt deserves all the time in the world, like Blaine said. He's willing to give Kurt forever if necessary, is willing to wait days or weeks or months if that's what Kurt needs.

Blaine understands, but that doesn't make it hurt any less. It makes it hurt _more_.

Perched on the edge of the bed, his mother holds him so softly he can barely feel her wrapped round him. They stay like that for what feels like hours but is probably only a few minutes, until the tears haven't dried up but the pain gets too much to keep sobbing. They slide quietly down his face, Blaine holding up the icepack to his as his mother gets a quick rundown from the nurse. Afterward she and Nurse Manning lead him carefully to her car, a slick silver Jaguar with cream interiors that Blaine's barely ever driven in before, and load him inside.

They don't speak on the ride to the hospital, although the occasional wetness still manages to escape and streak silently down his cheek. But his mother keeps a soft hand on his knee, and plays music quietly on the radio, and hums along to every song she knows for the entire drive there.

* * *

><p><em>Walking all the way to the Westerville bus station in town takes just under an hour, but the boy doesn't care. He can barely feel the exhaustion tugging at his limbs, or the hunger aching in his stomach. Being without the blazer makes him<em>_** less **__conspicuous, but the tie is still a dead giveaway to anyone who knows anything. He strips it off and trashes it in the first garbage can he sees._

_At the ATM outside the bus station, he takes out his bank card – thank god his wallet was in his pants pocket, thank __**god**_ – _and draws out everything in his pathetic account. It's all from summer jobs and allowance when he was a kid, but it's going to have to do because he hasn't fucking got anything else. He throws the bank card away afterward, because he's seen enough crime shows to know people can be traced that way. _

_Jesus fucking Christ, __**crime shows**__, he's a criminal, they have a fucking _video _and he then beat that fucking kid to pieces _–

_The boy buys his ticket to Columbus with cash. The ride there doesn't feel very long, and when he arrives he buys another ticket, this time to Chicago with over an hour before his bus leaves. He goes into the skeevy-as-fuck bathroom and locks himself in one of the stalls, sitting on the toilet with his head in his hands. Breathing too hard, too fast as he tries to think of what to do next, where to go, how to live, how to hide. He isn't quiet; a couple of guys open the door and leave after a few seconds. But eventually he manages to calm down again._

_When the boy boards the bus, the tears have been wiped away. He sleeps curled up into the window, sitting on all the money he has in the world and dreaming of bright blue eyes that shine with tears and fury. _

* * *

><p>The door slips out of his hand and closes with a loud <em>slam<em>, but Kurt can't muster any remorse. He keeps his eyes straight ahead, tears streaked down his face, as he walks determinately down the hall. It only takes a few paces, though, before Kurt starts to go faster. Speeding up, and taking bigger steps, until he's _flying _down the hallway, almost tripping over his feet with sudden desperation to get out, to leave, to _get out of this place_. He speeds down the main staircase, almost tripping over his feet, and all but throws himself at the heavy main door separating him from the outside world. Kurt slams into it, shoves it open –

—and chokes in a deep breath of air as he's sent stumbling onto the large stone steps of the entrance. It's bright outside. Bright and warm and sunny, cool air filling his lungs. Not closed in by the stuffy walls and doors and hallways anymore. Outside, in the open. Free.

Shaking, Kurt glances up. There is a familiar brown truck turning into the school grounds, taking the corner too quickly as it speeds toward him. The sight of it alone is practically enough to set him off again, and he bites down hard on his lip. The truck slows down as it winds to the front of the school, and Kurt can see his dad through the window. He's wearing his usual hat and a red plaid shirt, and Kurt can see from a distance that his rounded face is pulled into an expression of confused concern.

"Kurt –" begins his dad in a worried tone, but Kurt's already speeding down the steps. He reaches the passenger side, flings the door open, and clambers hurriedly inside.

"Drive," Kurt orders, slamming the car door shut. His hands are shaking as he reaches for the seatbelt, but they just need to _go right now. _"Please, dad, just drive. We need to go. _Please_ –"

Without wasting a moment to ask why, Burt slams on the accelerator. The truck may be old, but it's tuned and maintained to within an inch of its life. It starts quickly, and within a few moments they're speeding down the road; through the main gates of Dalton, flying past a fancy silver car headed toward the school. Out, out, out. Away from everything he couldn't stop from happening to him: the pain, the humiliation. Away from what came so close to happening in the clearing.

Away from Blaine, and how the other boy makes Kurt's heart ache with confusion and doubt.

Burt doesn't say anything for the first few minutes of the drive, staring hard at the road in front of them with an inscrutable look on his face. It gives Kurt a chance to catch his breath; pressing himself back into his seat and trying to focus on the in and out, in and out. He knows he must look an absolute disaster; eyes red and face damp, with leaves still clinging to the backs of his uniform trousers. His dad doesn't say anything; just looks straight ahead and drives.

And then they begin to slow. Before Kurt knows what's happening, they're turning off into a small rest area.

"What...?" Kurt asks, not understanding.

"It's a long drive to Lima," Burt explains, pulling the truck into an empty parking space. Not even bothering to back in the way he always does, just driving the truck in front-first. The rest area is practically empty. There's a gas station and not much else; there are only four other cars in the large parking area, spread out far apart from one another. A sparse smattering of foliage lines the outskirts where asphalt turns to dirt. Burt turns the keys in the ignition, and the low rumble of the truck ceases. He turns to face his son. "You're too upset to wait until we get there, and I want to look you in the eyes when you tell me what's wrong. Now: what's wrong, kiddo?"

The words hit Kurt hard in the chest, and for a moment all he can think about is how very much he's _missed _his father. Missed talking to him, and their weekends together, and the way Burt knows him better than anyone else in the world.

"I missed you, Daddy," Kurt whispers in a tiny voice, tears starting to choke in his throat again. His father's eyes widen at the long-lost term of endearment: it's something Kurt hasn't called him regularly since he was perhaps six years old.

And he just can't hold back any longer. Unbuckling his seatbelt with trembling fingers, Kurt closes the space between them and lets his dad pull him into a tight, warm hug. It's an awkward position; leaning over sideways with the gearshift digging into Kurt's side, but none of that matters. The smell of Old Spice and motor oil makes nostalgia edge alone hid mind as he buries his face in his father's shoulder.

"I did it, Dad." Kurt can hear the words, high and shaky and stifled by the rough material of his dad's shirt. They're coming fast and uncontrollable from his mouth, as though without permission. "I really did it. I broke it. I don't – it's not in me anymore."

His father's arms tense around him, and Kurt clings on tighter.

"What?" Burt asks, quiet and careful and not-too-hopeful. There's a rough edge to his voice. In case he misunderstood, or misheard, because Kurt knows it's more than he's ever hoped for. "You mean...?"

Growing up, Kurt imagined this scene a thousand times. Somehowfinding a way to break the curse, to make himself free. He'd spent hours fantasizing about how it would feel to have every single path open to him. The idea that maybe one day, if he tried hard enough, he could go anywhere, do anything, and not have to be terrified of discovery or consequences the entire time – it was a beautiful one, and he'd thought about it often. He'd imagined telling his dad, and celebrating, and hugging him so tight they'd find it hard to breathe.

Kurt had never imagined this moment would hurt so much.

"The curse," Kurt sobs, and the tears are back again. Sliding down his cheeks , and he has no idea if it's happiness or grief that's put them there. Can't tell what's up or down in his head; can barely tell if this is even real. "It's gone now, Dad, I – I broke it, it's –"

"Kurt," his dad croaks, clinging onto his son's shoulders. He's shaking, and Kurt can feel his heart beating in his chest so hard it starts to worry him. "Kurt, oh my god. Are you – you're sure –?"

"Tell me to do something," says Kurt, pulling back. His father's face is ruddy with emotion, and dampness around his blue eyes. Burt blinks hard, and Kurt can see the hope – but also the carefulness, the doubt. The disbelief. "Tell me to do something, Dad."

"Are you sure?" Burt asks seriously, brows furrowing together. Kurt honestly cannot remember the last time his father gave him any kind of order, even by accident. Finn tended to forget often; he frequently had to undo stupid commands while the two of them were living together, flushing in embarrassment and stammering out awkward apologies. Even Carole occasionally blanked and slipped in motherly orders – _put on a jacket before you go out, sweetie _and _make sure you're home by ten – _if she was distracted by something. His dad, without exception, never gave him orders. Any sort of instruction was always phrased as a request, a suggestion. And he never, ever forbade Kurt from doing anything while he was growing up.

Kurt can't remember the way his mother dealt with his condition anymore. Those memories are lost, or tucked away, or never existed to begin with.

"Yeah," says Kurt, nodding hard and swiping a hand across his eyes.

For a long moment, Burt hesitates. He fidgets guiltily before opening his mouth and, as though the words are foreign to him, saying tentatively: "Open the car door."

And Kurt shakes his head. "No," he whispers. There is no pain. No dizziness, no aching muscles. There is just the soft syllable of the denial as it hangs along the air. "No, Dad. I won't."

"Oh my god." Whispered words, rushed in disbelief. Tears swelling up in blue eyes. "You – Kurt, you –"

"I know," Kurt chokes out, and his father pulls him into another tight hug.

"I can't believe – _Kurt_ –" Burt grips his son's shoulders _hard_, pulling him in closer than can possibly be comfortable in the small space. He can feel his father's chest shaking as he cries unashamedly into Kurt's shoulder. Kurt twists up his face and tries to commit this moment to memory. This pure, untainted happiness and pride.

"It's – it's all I ever wanted for you," Burt says brokenly into his shoulder. "Kurt, it's – it's all _we_ ever wanted for you. Your mom –" His dad shudders hard, drawing in a ragged breath as he squeezes Kurt so hard it's almost hard to breathe. "Your mom would be _so _proud of you. And _so_ happy."

"I know," Kurt says again, clutching at the red plaid fabric of his father's shirt.

For a few minutes, there is nothing but their shared breathing as they cling to one another in the cab of the truck. His father, who loves Kurt more than anything. Who'd hoped since he was a child that he could maybe, one day, have a normal life. Who grieved for Kurt's curse before Kurt himself could even understand what it meant. They hold each other tight, and Kurt knows that the embrace isn't just for him.

After a long minute, Burt pulls away.

"_How_?" he asks, and unbridled_ joy_ is coming off his voice in waves. It makes something awful twinge in the base of Kurt's stomach. Burt laughs, squeezing Kurt's shoulders hard. "How did it happen? Kurt, you can do whatever you want! _Be_ whoever you want! You can have a proper life, the way we always wanted for you! I can't even – you'll have to tell me _everythi _–"

But before Burt can even finish the sentence, he freezes. Looking into Kurt's face, the laughter and delight begins to slide away from his father's expression. In its place, concern is swelling up large and real. Kurt winces, curses his face for being so fucking _emotive. _For showing everything before he wants it to.

He wishes he could have postponed this moment a little bit longer. Let his dad be happy for just that little bit more.

"Kurt?" his dad asks, eyes darkening. "What's—?"

"I have to tell you something else," says Kurt in a quiet monotone, folding his hands into his lap. His dad pulls back, looking at him with a confused look on his face. Anxiety and disgust for himself swirl unpleasantly in the bottom of Kurt's stomach. For all he's desperately wanted to talk to his dad – to find his dad, to _tell _his dad – over the past months, the words seem to cling to his tongue.

When he'd confessed his story to Blaine, he'd had the benefit of _just tell me what's wrong_ to push him through the difficult parts. The aspects that scraped at his insides and hurt to talk about, because it meant that all of it had happened. Because the whole story... the whole story is ugly, and brutal, and humiliating. But every time he'd hesitated when telling Blaine, or had wanted to avoid an aspect, the faintest touch of dizziness had spurred him on. The thing that had kept him imprisoned had allowed him to reach out for help.

But there is no curse now. There's nothing to support him through this. The past two months have been unthinkably _wrong _in every possible way, and telling his dad... telling his dad means that it was real. That it happened, to him. That he wasn't strong enough to stop it from happening.

_He'll never look at me the same way again_. The thought twines along the corner of Kurt's mind, dull with horrified resignation. And if he tells his dad, it won't be the end. There will be trips to the police, to doctors, and information making it into the news. Submitting evidence and doing interviews and figuring out witnesses and accounts. He won't be able to keep the last two months quietly in the past as he'd hoped; they'll be splashed across his life, a constant reminder.

But after long wordless pause, Burt leans forward and puts a hand on Kurt's knee. The touch is gentle, and steady, and not going anywhere. His hand feels warm.

_Don't fall apart, _he tells himself. _Just hang in for a little bit longer. _

Straightening up, Kurt forces himself to push down the emotion and the hurt. How close, how soon, how _much_ it all is. He opens his mouth, takes a deep breath – and begins to speak.

* * *

><p><em>The boy arrives in Chicago late at night. He has no place to sleep and no money to buy a room, so he naps on a park bench outside and waits for the buses to start running again. It's cold and he hasn't got a jacket, and it's probably incredibly stupid to sleep with so much cash on him in a place like this, but he can barely care enough not to lie down right on the ground. He hides the money in his shoe and drifts in and out until the sun rises again.<em>

_He spends most of the rest of his pathetically small savings on bus tickets. Running farther and farther away, with no idea who's coming after him or how fast or if they're even coming at all. It only hits him when he's three capitals away and trying to figure out where to sleep for the night that he's never going to see his parents again. Not his father with his greying hair and patient eyes, or his mother with her tiny stature and strong embrace. The realization hits him so hard he dry heaves in the bus station bathroom for fifteen minutes, tears running down his face that aren't from the retching at all._

_He wonders if this is punishment for what he tried to do – for what he almost succeeded at. _

**Kurt**, _he thinks desperately as he clings to the hard, cold porcelain. _**Kurt, Kurt, Kurt, Kurt, Kurt**.

* * *

><p>In the next weeks, Kurt often finds himself vaguely surprised that the days keep coming and going. It feels, having told his family what happened to him in the past two months, that time should somehow stop working. That the clocks should stop, and the world should stop spinning, and that everything should <em>change <em>because of it.

It doesn't, though. Days turn into nights, which turn into nightmares, which turn into sheets soaked with cold sweat as he wakes up to the sun just beginning to creep through his curtains. Burt, Carole, and Finn all lead busy lives, even if his dad decided it was necessary to take a few weeks off work to spend time with him. There are tears, of course, and devastated expressions when they find out what he's been forced to hide from them for months. But it continues to shock him, the little ways that life keeps moving forward. Finn still has programs he likes to watch on television, and Carole still cooks dinner. His dad still listens to sports on the radio when he thinks Kurt is tucked up in his room and won't be coming out for a few hours.

There are some differences, of course. The trips to the police station, or the hospital, or the friend-of-a-friend-of-an-employee therapist his dad was able to find. Dr. O'Reilly is kind, and collected, and willing to believe Kurt about his former condition with only a few moments of scepticism. But for the most part, Kurt stays at home.

He loves his family, but they have no idea how to act around him. How to talk about or respond to this horrific thing that has invaded their lives; what to say that won't make him flinch, or draw back into himself, or lash out.

And he doesn't know how to act around them, either.

Kurt doesn't know how to act around himself. He feels as though someone has taken a _dealing with grief and loss _book, turned it upside down above his head, and shaken it out until all the possible symptoms tumbled down around him like standing in a rainstorm. Some days he feels matter-of-fact, and other days he can't dredge up the energy leave his bed. Some days he goes hours without thinking about it all; and others his dad saying 'good morning' will set him off into hysteria-tinged tears that last for hours, feeling disgusting and filthy and wanting to strip off his skin like a snake. It's frustrating beyond words, not knowing what to expect. He hates having to go through all of it more than anything else, wishes he could just _skip this bit _and get over everything and be _done _with it already. To not let the memory of Karofsky control him anymore. Kurt feels impatient with himself more consistently than anything: upset that his family has to deal with him like this.

Sometimes he thinks that the only one who's frustrated by his process is himself.

Life chips away slowly at the hard, mercenary-like veneer of _surviving _he's had to take on. It's terrifying, letting it go. Letting it go means being a victim, being someone who had something _happen _to them that they couldn't stop.

The first time Kurt accidentally calls himself a whore out loud during one of his slightly-frenetic crying jags, his dad _slams _his hand down onto the kitchen counter so hard the cupboards shake. The action makes Kurt's whole body freeze and an inexplicable flash of _fear _shoot through his body – before he realizes his dad is trembling. Eyes squeezed shut and wavering, shaking his head back and forth with tears leaking out of his eyes and before Kurt knows it, _he's _the one with his arms wrapped around his dad. Whispering _Daddy, it's okay_ and _I know, Dad, I know _and _it's stupid, I know I didn't – it's stupid, I'm sorry, I'm sorry _over and over again.

Burt spends all night on the phone and books Kurt's first appointment with Dr. O'Reilly the next day.

In the weeks after he comes home, Kurt sees his father cry more than in the rest of his life put together. Even when Elizabeth died so many years ago, Burt had kept that grief private. Separate; soldiering on to raise his son alone. This time, Kurt can't help but see how devastated his father is that he wasn't able to protect his son. Couldn't ignore it if he wanted to.

Finn and Carole try their hardest, but Finn has no _idea _what to say or how to act and Carole just doesn't know him well enough. They try. Finn attempts to let him choose what they watch on television, and Carole asks him what he wants for dinner every day when she comes home from work, but the _strangeness _of both those things puts him on edge instead of at ease. Makes his skin feel tight and wrong along his body.

When Finn tries to pull him into a hug for the first time since he came home, the larger boy jolts back before his arms can even wrap all the way around Kurt's shoulders. Face a map of horror and regret and guilt, Finn stammers out apologies with wide eyes until Kurt can't take it anymore. Until he snaps forward and grabs Finn around the stomach, pressing his face into Finn's wide chest and _refusing _to move. Burying himself in the safety of the warmth of is stepbrother's body, smell and feel so utterly different from what Finn is scared of reminding him of, until Finn finally relaxes and hugs him through the tears he didn't even realize were there.

Physical contact becomes accepted, after that, as long as he initiates it. Carole's hand tracing up and down his arm as they sit next to one another on the couch, or burying himself in his father's side, or Finn wrapping an arm around his shoulders. It's instinctual and base and raw and Kurt wants it _so badly_, wants to feel safe and held and cared for by people he loves. By people who thinks he matters.

It still feels surreal, not having the sickness or the dizziness or the compulsion screaming at him inside his own mind. Kurt feels oddly empty, as though a tumour that's been there his whole life has been sliced out and taken away all at once, without any time to adjust or heal or come to terms with it. He barely knows what to do with himself, most days. Barely has any idea how to think, or react to mundane situations, or think about himself. Has no idea how to approach the world.

The days come and go, sickly slow like dripping honey, and Kurt tries to relearn who he is.

* * *

><p><em>It isn't until he's been in this city for a few days that he sees the news reports. The television set in the shelter is a piece of shit, at least ten years old. It sits on the kitchen counter and is always on, image flickering dully as the men and women in front of it eat Cheerio's out of industrial-sized boxes without milk because there isn't the money for it at this time of year. The boy sits in a pair of jeans three sizes too big and a hoodie he got for free from a church clothing drive as the story splays across the screen.<em>

"_This week, an Ohio boy from a small private school in Westerville was charged with both assault and sexual assault against his classmates," says the pretty blonde newscaster in a sombre voice. Her eyes still sparkle charmingly despite the content of her story. "The names of all parties are being withheld due to minor status. The boy in question is seventeen years old, and has not been seen for over a week. His parents claim to have no knowledge about his whereabouts. Authorities are on the lookout, although an officer with the Ohio State Police has stated that they 'are inclined to believe he may have fled the state'." She shuffles her notes, smiling at the screen. "Now, on to the weather, Alex..."_

_There's a loud _clang, _and the boy is jolted out of his terrified daze to realize that he's dropped his spoon onto the wooden table. A couple of people glance up briefly, but no one looks at him for too long. The eyes of these people are clouded with regret and drugs and loneliness, and they don't have time for some stupid newcomer who's too young to know what real trouble is. No one here even knows his real name._

_And no one seems to have noticed the news report._

_It's with shaking hands that the boy picks up the spoon again and continues to eat, keeping his head down and his eyes pointedly fixed on the table below._

* * *

><p>By mid-May, the weather is finally beginning to warm up. Around campus, more and more students are starting to go without their blazers when not in class; dozens of boys in white dress shirts with the sleeves rolled up can be seen, excited for the transition into summer weather. With final exams and papers coming up in just over a month, and air of anxiety is mixing with the anticipation for summer holidays. Dalton teachers have high standards, and the school itself orients toward preparation for post-secondary education. Even with Blaine only in junior year, the pressure to perform well is high.<p>

Missing a few days of school after the confrontation in the woods hadn't helped his preparedness levels, either. Neither had the fact that Karofsky had managed to sprain two fingers in his writing hand. They'd swollen and bruised and hurt _badly _for the first week, and only now is Blaine able to attempt any sort of mobility in them at all. Writing notes by hand is still completely out of the question, although the school had done their best to accommodate him. Every one of his teachers had been instructed to allow him to bring his laptop in order to frantically type sloppily with his left hand only, and most had organized for one of their other students to photocopy their notes and provide him with a copy. It isn't ideal, but it's better than nothing at all.

It's been a week and a half since the encounter with Karofsky in the woods, and Blaine hasn't heard anything from Kurt since the other boy walked out of the nurse's office refusing to look Blaine in the eye. In his more honest moments, Blaine knows that having no idea how Kurt is doing hurts worse than all his injuries combined.

But he understands. He does, and Blaine doesn't want to be _that _friend. Who promises space and then crowds around, shoving himself into Kurt's personal space where he doesn't belong and making everything harder. So aside from the single text message he sent on the day of the confrontation, Blaine hasn't tried to contact Kurt at all.

The text had been typed out with his left hand after returning home from the ER, lying in bed and wincing at the pain in his chest with a mug of his mother's _salabat _steaming on his bedside table. His father had hovered anxiously outside his bedroom door, obviously debating whether or not to come inside, as he typed:

_To: Kurt Hummel  
>May 9<em>_th__ 2011, 10:54pm  
>Whenever you're ready. I care about you so much, Kurt. I can wait. – Blaine <em>

It's been a week and half, and he hasn't received anything back. But at least this time Blaine know the reason for Kurt's drawing away, understands it. Is willing to give Kurt the room he needs. Besides, finals and notes and dealing through the pain of three cracked-not-fractured-thank-god ribs have all been at least a decent distraction.

And when he finally hears anything at all about Kurt's well-being, it doesn't happen quite in the way he'd expected.

Blaine is walking from the main building back to Tower Residence, a bookbag slung over his wrong shoulder and fretting slightly about an assignment for Law when he notices a vehicle pull into the residence parking lot. That in itself is unusual at this time of day, and so is the vehicle in question. It's a large brown truck, odd when juxtaposed against a lot filled mostly with sleek silver sedans. Without fully understanding why he bothers, Blaine pauses to watch as the door opens and a man slides out.

The man is older and bald, wearing a black cap and a tired expression. His shirt looks like some sort of uniform in a rough blue, and when he turns Blaine gets a look at his face. He doesn't look much like the kind of adults who usually come to visit their children here, even as Blaine feels guilty thinking it. Something twinges in his head, like a memory half-forgotten. As though Blaine's seen him somewhere before...

When it hits him, his eyes fly wide open.

"Mr. Hummel!" Blaine shouts, because the man is walking toward the main building at a quick pace that Blaine can't keep up with without his chest screaming in protest. "Mr. Hummel, wait!"

Burt Hummel turns at the sound of his name being called, the confused expression on his face twisting into a fusion of shock and suspicion when his gaze falls on Blaine's face. It's a look that Blaine's grown extremely accustomed to over the past few weeks: the swelling in his nose has gone down a lot, but there bruises still fading along the ridge of his nose and eyes. It doesn't exactly make him look friendly.

"Do I know you?" Burt asks slowly, eyes lingering on the gnash above Blaine's eyebrow that Karofsky left with his school ring.

"Sorry," pants Blaine, coming over as fast as he can without hurting himself. "Sorry, no, but – Kurt had a picture of you and him as his Facebook profile for a long time, so –"

"Wait, you know Kurt?" The older man's face hardens, and something distrustful comes into his eyes. It hurts to see, even if Blaine understands. "How do you –?"

"Blaine Anderson," he says, too quickly, stepping on Burt's words like on a partner's feet in a dance. "Sorry. I don't – I don't even know if he mentioned me, but..."

Blaine trails off when he sees the recognition twinge in Burt's expression. Kurt's father seems to freeze, staring down at Blaine's face as though for the first time. Taking in the bruises and the cuts with a new eye. Blue eyes dart down to where Blaine's right hand is motionless down by his side, the way he's holding himself slightly awkwardly. Blaine doesn't know this man at all, only has Kurt's stories to go on. Has no idea how much Kurt's decided to tell his father, or how Burt will react.

But Burt's posture is loosening, slumping. His eyes are sad.

"Oh, Blaine," says Burt, shaking his head. "That son of a bitch really did a number on you, didn't he." It isn't a question, and it's all Blaine needs to know that Kurt has told his father everything.

"Is he okay?" Blaine can't stop himself from asking. "Is Kurt okay? Or. Not okay, of course, but..." He bites down on his lip. "He's all right?"

"He's dealing," says Burt without inflection, and the words make Blaine wince. Of course Kurt's dealing. He's not all right, or okay, or anything resembling those things. It would be stupid to think otherwise.

In front of him Burt crosses his arms, and for a horrifying second it hits Blaine that maybe Burt thinks he _abandoned _Kurt when things got hard. That he threw up his hands and let Kurt walk away without offering any help at all. The idea of Kurt's _dad_ thinking that sort of thing him makes Blaine feel slightly sick.

"Space," he blurts, sounding more and more like an idiot with every passing second. "Kurt wanted space, so I'm giving it. Space, I mean. And time." Burt expression doesn't shift at all, so Blaine keeps going. "And that's fine, I get it, I really do. But I saw you and knew who you were, and I just thought..." Blaine looks down at his feet, feeling heat rush into his face. Awkwardness is clenching in his chest. "It's just... hard, you know? Knowing he's hurting and not being able to help. So it's stupid, but could you... could you maybe give him a hug from me? You don't have to say it's from me, or anything," he hastens to clarify. "Just... make sure he knows there are people who really care about him."

There's a long, long pause. Blaine's hearts sinks with the complete certainty that he's gone too far, he's overstepped boundaries. He's just about to try to duck away when Burt nods.

"Sure," says Kurt's dad, nodding slowly. "I can do that."

"Oh," says Blaine weakly. "Thank you, sir. Really."

"Burt's fine," says Burt, and Blaine fully expects him to make his excuses and continue on his way toward the main office. He doesn't. Instead, he keeps looking right at him. Looking at Blaine as though he's seeing something more than bruises and slicked-down hair and a nice uniform. It makes Blaine feel incredibly uncomfortable, exposed. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

Eventually, Burt is the one to break the silence.

"Kurt... he's not very good at doing nothing. I think it's hard for him, in a funny way, being at home so much." A pause. "Did you hear that Karofsky kid pulled a runner?" Burt asks, as though trying to make conversation, but something awful and bitter twists in Blaine's chest.

"Yeah," Blaine mutters, shaking his head. "My parents tried to press charges for –" he gestures with his left hand, as if to encompass the bruises and the cuts, "— but no one knows where he is. The last thing we heard, someone saw him get on a bus to Columbus, but... nothing since then." Blaine shakes his head, and there's a strange numbness edging at his fingertips. "I can't believe he's going to get away with it," he says dully. "With everything, with... with what he did to Kurt."

"I know," says Burt gruffly. There are bags under his eyes, and for the first time Blaine realizes how _exhausted _Kurt's father looks. Blaine can't even imagine finding out about what happened to his son, or how powerless Burt must feel about the entire thing. And it's all so fucking unfair. It doesn't seem like it's possible that they should live in a world where sometimes bad people don't get what's coming to them. That one person could irrefutably damage so many people's lives and walk away scot-free, and that there's nothing anyone can do to make it better.

In a strange way, it makes Blaine angry with the fairy tales and children's books his mother used to read to him when he was small. The ones where the good guys always saved the day, and the bad guys got punished, and everything ended in happily ever after no matter how horrible everything had been before. Those books had never prepared him for anything like this; for how unfair it could all be.

All at once, Blaine comes back to himself. "Sorry," he mumbles, giving his head a shake, but Burt's giving him and understanding look that even edges on pity. Because this is a man who has known for years. Who watched his son grow up and knew exactly how unfair and awful the world has the potential to be.

It occurs to Blaine for the first time to wonder why Burt is at Dalton at all. "Mr. Hu – I mean, Burt – if it's okay to ask, what are you doing here?"

"Picking up Kurt's stuff out of his room," the older man explains. "Everything got left there he when we took off, and I haven't had the chance to come get it yet. Kurt... he didn't really want to go back again to pack, you know?"

An image drifts into Blaine's mind. A tangle of naked limbs and the slide of sweat-on-sweat, choked gasps and pleasure that wasn't real emanating off Kurt in waves. And another image, from that awfulsickdisgusting_wrong_ video. The one Blaine had been forced to edit on his laptop in order to convert it into the right filetype to put on a CD. A little clip of Kurt on his knees, small body jolted with every rock as Karofsky slams his cock into Kurt's mouth playing over and over in his mind.

"God, of course," Blaine mutters, shuddering. He catches Burt's eye. "Do you need any help?" When Burt looks dubiously down at Blaine's right hand, he clarifies. "I mean, I can show you where his room is if you have his key." The Law assignment can wait until later tonight, Blaine decides. This is more important. "And I can carry some of the lighter things, if you want the help."

"I do have his key," says Burt slowly. "Was just going to go ask the main office for directions, but... yeah. Why not? Show me the way, kid."

Blaine smiles, and leads the way. Kurt's father walks with him to the Milward-Hopkins building in a manner that Blaine finds himself truly appreciating, even if he can't quite put his finger on why. Burt Hummel doesn't walk ever-so-slightly too quickly like his own father, as though challenging Blaine to go that little bit faster, push that little bit harder to catch up. And he doesn't baby him like Blaine's mother, who winces every time he takes a step and looks as though she means to catch him if he falls. Instead, Burt slows his pace and they walk side by side. It's nice.

When they reach the door to Kurt and Karofsky's dorm room, Burt turns the key in the lock – and both of them freeze as the door swings open.

The room looks as though there are two boys still living there. There's a Dalton sports hoodie thrown over the back of one of the computer chairs, and an iPod plugged into the wall and charging next to what Blaine can only assume was Kurt's bed. There's a crumpled piece of paper on the floor that Blaine is almost positive is the note they wrote together. The bathroom light is still on.

Neither of them can look at one another for a few minutes, hovering in the doorway until Burt finally takes a deep breath and steps inside.

Emptying out Kurt's room takes a while, in the end, and the two of them don't talk very much in the process. Burt brought boxes and bags in the car, and the two of them fill them all up with clothes that Blaine folds and Burt carries, pots of moisturizer, books, CDs, rolled-up posters, and a million other things left here like relics of the past.

Words hang between them, unspoken and loud amid the shuffles of sorting and packing up Kurt's life.

* * *

><p><em>He's able to find work, eventually, with a construction company that pays cash and doesn't check his references or resume too closely. His bosses are questionable at best and his coworkers aren't really worth talking to, but the work is easy enough. Three summers' worth of experience helping his uncle renovate the family summer home is enough to give him some basic skills, and the rest comes pretty intuitively. <em>

_It takes another two months of living at the shelter before he's able to find a place to live that's cheap enough and doesn't require legitimate references. _

_It's a complete shithole. The wallpaper is ancient and peeling, and on his first tour he finds rat droppings in the kitchen. He takes it anyways. _

_There isn't any point in getting to know his coworkers, or trying to make friends, because there's nothing left in him for anyone to get to know. There's never anyone else, either, because the only one that matters isn't there anymore. He's been hollowed out and left living, surviving every day for reasons he himself can't even comprehend. _

_Some nights, the boy dreams of what-might-have-beens and a million lost chances. Of an apartment shared with a beautiful boy with a brilliant smile and bright blue eyes, who nods and grins and lets himself be kissed. _

_He wakes from those dreams sweat-soaked and panting, hands curling in the sheets and sick to his stomach with want and self-hate and revulsion._

* * *

><p>After a month in the Hudson-Hummel household without anything to truly set his mind to, Kurt starts feeling slightly stir-crazy. He's left the house, of course: going grocery shopping with Carole, or to the garage with his dad, and even once with Finn to help him pick out a dress shirt to wear on a date with his girlfriend. Practically as an act of defiance to himself, Kurt's even started making every-other-day trips to the Lima Bean. It's a local coffee shop with questionable cookies but very friendly baristas, and Kurt makes a point of bringing a book with him and sipping through at least one non-fat mocha before he leaves.<p>

Being able to go wherever he wants, whenever he wants, to _talk _to whomever he wants... it's overwhelming in a way that isn't easy to explain. Kurt's entire life has been limited, stunted. Not allowed to go to school until he was older, or discouraged from extracurricular activities, or scared to make real friends in case they decide to take advantage. Having so many opportunities available... it's terrifying.

His dad, Carole, and Dr. O'Reilly keep telling him not to push himself, that it's okay to move at his own pace. But staying home staring at walls isn't making him any less anxious, and the days are too empty without something to fill them with. Re-integrating all of his Dalton possessions had been a nice task once his dad had brought them home, and having his own laptop again is pleasant. But none of it can quite hold his interest for long enough to stop things he'd rather not think about from lingering in his mind.

A month and a week after the day Burt took him away, Kurt asks his dad to start figuring out how to finish his last semester of junior year. Before long, pamphlets for summer school and correspondence learning begin piling up on the kitchen table.

Kurt knows that no one's been able to find Karofsky, knows how much it kills his dad not to have anyone to punish for what happened. But in a way he won't admit to anyone out loud, Kurt isn't surprised. He told Dave to run, and didn't seriously expect him to stop any time soon.

Being tucked away in his own little fortress doesn't stop him from looking out the windows, however. He's become a champion Facebook-stalker over the past weeks, mastering the art of looking and reading without posting anything. Kurt sits with his laptop in the living room and watches his friends comment on one another's statuses, or post pictures of parties he didn't attend, and clicks the links to the only-sometimes-funny things they post.

Kurt is just chuckling to himself over a parody of "Tik Tok" that David from the Warblers posted a few minutes ago when a comment pops up right beneath the video.

**Blaine Anderson:  
><strong>_Ohmygod that is too perfect! Good one man! :)_

Aside from a tiny part of Kurt's mind that judges him for the lack of commas, everything in Kurt's body seizes up immediately with jolted frustration. Blaine wrote that _just now_. He's on this stupid website at this very moment, writing and talking and socializing.

_I wish I could talk to him_, Kurt finds himself thinking in frustration. Before he realizes, of course, that he can.

Kurt hesitates for a long moment, trying to figure out how to determine if he's in a better place to talk to Blaine now than he had been a month ago. But he doesn't have any idea how _wellness_ is determined, really. How it's measured, or quantified, or solved like an equation. Kurt cries less than he did when he first came home, yes, but characters calling one another "babe" on television still makes his hackles rise just as much as before. The memory of Blaine's lips pressed against his own in the study room is quietly terrifying, but Kurt's fallen asleep to the memory of the curly-haired boy holding him close during his breakdown n the abandoned classroom more times than he can count.

Mostly, however, all he can think about is how much he wants to talk to Blaine.

Biting his lip and taking a deep breath, Kurt clicks the "available to chat" toggle and sends out a message before he can think better of it.

**Kurt Hummel: **_Hi. Are you there?_

At once, the message looks about a billion times stupider than it did in his head. Breath almost catching in his throat, Kurt waits for a response. And waits. Self-doubt starts to floor his mind after a few seconds without a response, because oh, god, Blaine probably hasn't thought about him in _months_. All at once he feels like a complete moron for expecting Blaine to have... to what? To have been waiting for Kurt to contact him with bated breath? It's finals soon, and essays will be due, and Blaine always had tonnes of friends at Dalton that Kurt is sure filled any void he may have left quickly enough. Face heating up, he starts to type again.

**Kurt Hummel: **_Never mind, don't worry about it. Have a good night._

**Blaine Anderson: **_nononoo! wait no plz don't go_

**Blaine Anderson: **_typing one handed _

**Blaine Anderson: **_just taeks me a minute_

**Blaine Anderson: **_to respond :)_

Seeing Blaine's name on the screen feels like puzzle pieces clicking into place. He's _missed _Blaine. With Karofsky... doing what he was doing, everything had been about _surviving _and _making it through _and _finding a way to keep himself _during everything. He had almost forgotten how close he and Blaine had been before everything happened. How much he'd genuinely liked Blaine when they were just two boys at school, learning one another and bantering over coffee.

It takes a second for the contents of Blaine's messages to sink in, and Kurt raises an eyebrow in confusion before he realizes _why _Blaine must be typing with one hand. Guilt hits him in the stomach like a punch, and he remembers Karofsky slamming his foot down onto Blaine's outstretched hand. The way he'd cradled it over his chest afterward; watching the nurse tape his fingers together.

**Kurt Hummel: **_Oh, my god. Of course. I'm so sorry... does it still hurt?_

**Blaine Anderson: **_not r4eally anymore, its just sore_

**Blaine Anderson: **_but im trying to rest it up a bit for finals_

**Blaine Anderson: **_so they don't hurt too much 2 write _

**Kurt Hummel: **_I'm sorry, Blaine._

**Blaine Anderson: **_nono its fine! Im just sorry i have 2 suck at tryping for u. i dont usually fail this much i promise!_

**Kurt Hummel: **_No. No, Blaine, I'm just... I'm really sorry. _

**Blaine Anderson:**_ ... kurt... _

Swiping at his eyes, Kurt bites his lip and waits for more. The _'Blaine Anderson is typing' _message stays at the bottom of the screen for an absurdly long amount of time before:

**Blaine Anderson: **_is it maybee okay if i call u? theres a lot i wanna say but itstaking me so long to write this out. you dont have to say yes if that would make u uncmfortable, though_

And since waiting on responses for so long is starting to make him feel physically anxious – and because the idea of hearing Blaine's voice makes something warm and pleasant curl around his stomach – Kurt responds almost immediately.

**Kurt Hummel: **_I'd like that. You still have my home phone number, right?_

**Blaine Anderson:**_i do yeah_

**Kurt Hummel: **_Call me in five minutes?_

**Blaine Anderson: **_okay :)_

Kurt stares at the last message, still hanging on the screen for a long moment, before he takes a deep breath and shuts off his laptop. Grabbing the portable phone from its cradle on the coffee table, he grips it tight in his hand as he heads up the stairs. Knocking on Burt and Carole's bedroom door elicits a warm 'come in!' from Carole almost immediately, so Kurt gently pokes his head inside.

His dad and stepmother are lying on opposite sides of their queen-sized bed, Carole with several file folders and a calculator on the sheets in front of her and his own dad with a worn paperback in hand. The soft red glow of the clock on their bedside table reads 10:36pm.

"Hey, buddy," says his dad warmly, looking up at him from the book and marking the page with his thumb. Carole smiles at him. "What's on your mind?"

"Just saying goodnight," says Kurt, in a too-high voice. "And... and that Blaine's calling in a few minutes. So if you hear talking from my room, it's just him."

Carole darts a look at her husband, but Burt just nods. "For sure. He seems like a pretty okay kid. Just let me know if you need anything?"

_Translation: come get me if you end up having some kind of freak out over this._

"I will," says Kurt softly. The phone is still clutched tight in his hand.

"Love you," says Burt, because they've all been saying it more since Kurt came home.

"I love you, too. Night, guys."

Closing the door behind him, Kurt pads softly down the hall to his own room and shuts the door behind him. He turns on his bedside lamp and climbs on top of the sheets, every nerve on edge in anticipation for the phone to start ringing. He taps his foot as he waits.

It doesn't take too long for the phone to ring, and Kurt picks it up on the first one. Finn's taking a nap – not asleep for the night, _taking a nap_, good lord what that boy's sleep schedule is like – and Kurt doesn't want the noise to wake him.

"Hey," Kurt says into the receiver, leaning back into the pillows.

"_Hey_," comes Blaine back through the speaker. Warm, and low, and more than a little bit nervous. It's the first time Kurt's heard his voice in weeks. The sound of it makes such an array of emotions rush through him that Kurt doesn't know which one to feel. Confusion. Guilt. Regret. Excitement. Doubt. Gratitude. The terrible strands of _what must he want from me _and _does he even want to talk to me at all _twine with _he sounds good _and _I miss him _in Kurt's mind.

A small cough comes from the other end of the line. "_Sorry," _says Blaine. "_I'm just. It's really nice to hear your voice again, Kurt. I really missed you._"

"Yeah," says Kurt, fiddling with the tassel on one of his throw pillows. "I know. I mean, I feel the same."

There's a long pause.

"_How are you doing?_" Blaine asks, at almost exactly the same time Kurt says, "I'm so sorry."

"_Kurt. Please, you don't have to – it's fine. I promise you, it's all fine_."

"I got you hurt," Kurt whispers, and he can feel his throat growing tight even as he tries to shove the feeling down.

"_I got off really easy, all things considered. I'm fine now. And I've had worse, and... and you know I was willing to. Whatever it took, Kurt, it didn't matter."_

"I know," says Kurt, hearing his voice grow thin. He scrubs at his eyes. "I know, and... and that's what's so scary, Blaine. I just... I feel like I barely know what to do with myself right now, and you're so _certain_, and I don't... I don't even know if I can be what you want, and I'm so _sorry_ –"

"_Wait_," Blaine quietly interjects, sounding confused and as though he's trying to calm Kurt down all at once. "_Kurt... what are you thinking that I want you to be_?"

Clutching at the blanket, Kurt can't stop himself from letting out a choked laugh. "You kissed me, Blaine," Kurt says, something hard creeping into his voice. "I think I can figure out what that means."

"_Kurt..." _Blaine sounds at a complete loss. "_Kurt, no, I just – I can't – " _He cuts himself off, and Kurt can practically envision him running a hand through his hair in that trademark-Blaine-way. He wonders if his hair is curly and soft, or slicked down flat. Blaine takes a deep breath. "_When I said I missed you, you know who I miss? My best friend. I miss being able to talk to him, and spend time with him, and laugh with him. And right now, my best friend is hurting, and I just want to make him feel better. You're my best friend, Kurt. And... yeah, I... I care about you a lot. So much, but... you're my friend before anything else. I'll be whatever you want me to be, okay? Just that, and nothing more unless you say so."_

Kurt blinks. That... he wasn't expecting that. For the briefest of moments, Kurt can hear Karofsky's voice in his head, saying _God, you were made for this_. Can feel the sick feeling growing at the back of his throat and the revulsiondisgust_powerlessness_ before he refuses to follow that train of thought any to tell himself that he's _not_ disgusting, or wrong, or broken. That there are reasons people might want to spend time with him that have nothing to do with the musky smell of sex or strangled groans or the slide of skin on skin.

For the most part, it almost works. Blaine's words are like rubbing lotion on aching burns; he can feel some of the anxiety, some of the confusion begin to ebb away. It isn't gone, but it isn't the first thing on his mind, either.

"Oh," Kurt says softly into the receiver.

"_Yeah_," says Blaine, sounding more anxious than ever.

"I just... yeah," Kurt chokes out. "God, I miss my best friend too," he says, half-laughing and half-crying, swiping underneath his eyes. He hesitates for a moment, because the next part is not something he's ever wanted to really say out loud. "I've never had a best friend before."

There's another long pause, but this one isn't like the others. It's a beat of respite, not an awkward hesitation. Because Kurt didn't realize until just this moment how very, very much he's missed having Blaine in his life. To talk to, and tease, and laugh with about nothing. And now Blaine is someone – the only someone – outside his family who knows everything. The whole story, not the edited-for-mass-consumption version. Someone he can be normal with, but who can sympathize about the abnormality and horror of those months. Someone who was literally willing to put _everything _on the line for him.

Kurt's been missing his best friend so much it hurts, and until a few moments ago he didn't even know he had a best friend.

"_Tell me how it feels to have broken it_," Blaine prompts after a while. "_Like, I just told you to do something and you don't have to!_ _Did your dad freak out? Is he happy?"_

"Oh, my god, Blaine. You have _no _idea," Kurt begins, before launching into the story.

He talks about telling his dad, and how happy he was, and how surreal and _amazing _it feels to refuse any order he wants. He talks about Carole's sweetness and Finn's cluelessness, his therapist, and how claustrophobic it's been starting to feel with nothing to do. Somehow that derails into a conversation about what one could do with spare time, which leads to a very silly discussion about knitting, which leads to Blaine jokingly suggesting that Kurt could start training to be a weightlifting champion with all his spare time, which somehow reminds Kurt to ask _and what on _Earth _was all that about a Sadie Hawkins dance, anyways?_

From there, the conversation turns to the bullying at Blaine's old school and the post-dance beating that wound him up in the emergency room with two fractured ribs, a broken nose and arm, and a foot he couldn't walk on for three weeks. They sympathize for a while about similar backgrounds before the conversation turns to Blaine's recovery this time around, and the record-breaking amounts of ginger tea his mother made for him while he was at home, which leads to Blaine doing a very funny impersonation of an angry Mr. Anderson that Kurt suspects should probably be sad, but they just can't stop _laughing_.

They talk, and talk, and talk about random things, important things, stupid things. Anything and everything until it's three in the morning and Blaine's starting to yawn and Kurt realizes that _Christ almighty, Blaine, it's a school night _and Blaine responds with _but we were having fun! _and it takes another fifteen minutes to actually properly end the conversation.

And when Kurt, out of habit, goes to say goodbye with _see you soon? _and Blaine responds too-quickly with _I'd love that_, they end up making plans to get coffee together five days from now.

They finally say goodnight at three thirty in the morning, and when Kurt finally presses the 'end' button on the phone he's grinning too-wide and just can't stop. He reaches out into his own mind for a moment, brushes over the idea of seeing Blaine in person – and doesn't even feel anxious. Nervous, a little, and excited. But the idea doesn't scare in the same way it used to, a twisting ball of anxiety over _what will I say _and _what does he want _and _things will never be normal with him again. _

More than anything, Kurt feels _relieved_. Staying away from Blaine for a little while... it was the right decision. Kurt knows he isn't _well, _not really, not by any stretch of the word. But before, the idea of seeing Blaine before had made him feel as though he was about to snap into two pieces; like spun sugar pulled too thin, so easy to shatter and break with the slightest of touches. Now, the notion of seeing Blaine in person feels... nice. Exciting, and pleasant. As though Blaine is someone to be with, and laugh with, and help him through this instead of another part of the problem to worry about.

There's been so little to be happy about for so long, and Kurt feels like a man dying of thirst after being given a long drink. He changes into pyjamas, performs his nightly hygiene routine, and goes to sleep with a smile on his face and anticipation buzzing in his fingertips.

* * *

><p><em>Days pass. Weeks, months, years in the same slide of day-after-day nothingness until the boy turns into the man. He uses a new name at every job he takes on, since none of them have his real information anyways. They're all seedy and questionable and sometimes he gets ripped off, but it's worth it to stay hidden and stay no one. <em>

_Eventually, he gets ID that's fake for the name and not the age. The man discovers how alcohol can make him forget everything, can make him so spun-around shitfaced that he can't remember where he is anymore. It helps him imagine, even if only for a little while, that things had turned out differently._

_The morning after is always spent retching into filthy toilets and wishing he could get back the sense of _possibility _being drunk gives him. He'll try again, that same night, but it never works in quite the way he wants. _

_The man without a name in a city that doesn't care. _

* * *

><p>When Blaine pushes the glass-panelled door open and walks into the heat of the coffee shop five days later – called the Lima Bean, which is kind of adorably dorky in a way he can appreciate – he can't stop himself from anxiously scanning the heads of the people inside. There's an obviously pregnant woman in the far corner with a half-eaten Danish on a plate in front of her, and several businessmen in shabby-looking suits clustered around the table immediately in front of the door. A young woman with a stack of books and three empty coffee cups around her like a fortress, a sweaty-looking man in jogging shorts and runners, and –<p>

And there he is.

For a moment, Blaine doesn't recognize him without the Dalton uniform. Kurt is standing and leaning against the bar, chatting with a curvy barista with dark skin and a beautiful smile as she makes drinks. He's far enough out of the way that other customers can easily grab their coffee once it's ready, but he still shoots them a tiny 'oops, sorry I'm in your way!' look every time someone comes up. He's wearing snug jeans that fit him in a way the standard-issue Dalton black slacks never could, tall boots, a long-sleeved brown shirt, and soft-looking cream scarf.

All at once Blaine doesn't regret in the _slightest _the forty minutes he spent in front of the mirror before he drove here. Even when his mother had poked her head in, said "darling boy, are you going on a _date_?", and he'd had to deflect for ten minutes before she grudgingly left him alone. He'd been serious about what he'd said to Kurt on the phone about missing Kurt's friendship above anything else, but it was hard to not want to look his best.

Kurt turns to look at him, and when his eyes fall on Blaine they _light up _like something out of a movie. He turns and says something briefly to the barista, who smiles, before grabbing two mugs from off to the side of the bar.

"Thanks, Mercedes," he hears Kurt say, before he turns back toward Blaine and nods toward a small unoccupied table in the back. Blinking, Blaine snaps out of it and moves to meet him there. Kurt is just finished putting the mugs down, straightening up when Blaine arrives.

There's a long moment where the two of them pause, unsure of exactly what to say. They've had two more hours-long phone conversations since the first, so technically speaking Blaine should be completely caught up with 'what's happening with Kurt Hummel right now'. It's the strangest feeling, though, seeing Kurt in person. For some reason, it feels as though they were never apart and like they never met in the first place all at once.

"Hey," says Blaine at last, because he can't think of anything else to say.

"Hey," says Kurt in return, biting down briefly on his lip. "Medium drip, right?"

"I... wait," Blaine blinks, eyes flicking down to the mugs on the table. One houses a chocolatey-looking drink, and the other is filled to the brim with dark liquid. No room for cream, just the way Blaine likes it. "You know my coffee order," murmurs Blaine stupidly, mind flashing back to all the coffee dates and meet-ups they used to have when Kurt first transferred. They seem like a very long time ago.

"Of course I do," says Kurt simply, wrinkling his nose. He reaches up and rubs his forearm, glancing down. "It's just drip coffee, Blaine, it isn't complicated."

A laugh escapes Blaine's throat before he can help himself, even though he isn't sure if laughing is exactly appropriate right now. He has absolutely no idea what proper protocol is for a situation like this. Blaine licks his lips.

"Do you," Blaine begins, gesturing vaguely down at the chairs. "Do you wanna sit down?"

"Not really," says Kurt quietly, before taking two purposeful steps forward, wrapping his arms around Blaine's neck, and pulls him into a tight hug. Shocked at the physical contact, Blaine tenses up and raises his hands in the air above Kurt's back as though he might be electrocuted if he touches him. It's – he's – Kurt's been through trauma, after all, and Blaine's sure he doesn't want –

"It's fine," murmurs Kurt against his neck, giving his head a tiny shake. There's a beat – before ever-so-slowly, Blaine lowers his hands to rest on Kurt's back. He's positive they must be making a bit of a spectacle now, standing and hugging for so long in the busy cafe, but he just can't bring himself to care. He closes his eyes. Kurt feels so solid and real and _alive _pressed up against him, nothing like the hollowed out and blank figure that had haunted Blaine's nightmares for days after the confrontation in the clearing. He smells like hairspray, and laundry detergent, and _Kurt. _

"I missed you," says Blaine quietly, the fingers of his left hand clenching into the material of Kurt's shirt. There are other words there, in between the lines, but this is no place for them.

"Me too." Kurt's words are loud and close in his ear. "Thank you. For waiting for me... thank you."

Eventually, they have to pull away. Laughing slightly and avoiding one another's eye, they slide into their chairs and tuck into the table. Blaine blinks in surprise and stares when Kurt unexpectedly slides his had overtop of Blaine's outstretched one on the table. Kurt catches him looking down at their hands together on the table and inhales sharply.

"I'm sorry," says Kurt, hand tensing to pull away. "If you don't want –"

Before he can move, Blaine curls his fingers around Kurt's hand.

"I do," murmurs Blaine, giving Kurt's hand a squeeze. Kurt lets out a breath across from him, relaxing into the contact. "I just didn't want to make you feel uncomfortable."

"It doesn't," says Kurt simply, giving his head a tiny shake. His thumb traces patterns only he knows over Blaine's wrist. It almost tickles, but not quite. Blaine nods.

"Okay," he says. "You just have to tell me, yeah? Because I don't... I won't know what _does _make you uncomfortable unless you tell me."

"Sure," says Kurt quietly, staring down at their hands. His eyes look darker for a moment, and slightly far away. "I used to look forward to this," he explains vaguely, thumb still moving in tiny circles. "When you'd hold my hand, or give my shoulder a squeeze. When it was happening. It was... it was really special to me. If that makes any sense."

"When Karofsky was controlling you," says Blaine, and Kurt nods; he doesn't even flinch at Blaine's stupidly mentioning Karofsky's name, which makes Blaine blink in awe. He works to maintain a straight face, but inside something shatters quietly at the idea of desperately wanting something so simple. At Kurt, all those times they met in the library, desperate to tell him and be held by him and unable to say a word.

"I'm still working on it, you know," Kurt says, looking down at the table. "Not feeling like... like people can tell, even if they don't know me. That it makes people not want to touch me."

"It doesn't," Blaine insists, but Kurt shakes his head.

"I know," he says. "In my head, I know. But I'm still trying to... you know, feel it." Kurt shakes his head. "Anyways," he says, tone turning into something determinedly lighter. "I was hoping to maybe ask you something. Every Friday night my family has dinner – it's stupid, just something since my mom died, but I was wondering if maybe you wanted to come this week? I know you're probably really booked up with finals, but you can bring your books and study before if you need to, we'd totally understand."

"I'd love that," Blaine responds, feeling the warmth and excitement in his chest leak into his words. "I really would. I like your dad a lot, and I'd love to meet everyone else –"

"Wait," interjects Kurt abruptly, eyebrow flying up into his hairline. "When did you meet my dad?"

"A few weeks ago, when he came to campus to get your things from you room? I helped him pack everything up. Well, sort of helped," Blaine adds lamely, gesturing to his right hand. He looks up only to see Kurt with his lips pursed tense, shaking his head at some unknown frustration. "What?" Blaine asks, blinking. "He didn't tell you?"

"_That man_," says Kurt, still shaking his head. He lets out a sigh that Blaine knows him well enough to realize is more affectionate than frustrated. "I told him that we were taking some time apart, and he probably didn't want to 'pressure me into contacting you before I was ready', oh my _god_. I can't believe him sometimes." Kurt lets out a little huff, reaching with his free hand to pick up his mug and take a sip.

"Did he pass on my hug?" Blaine asks eagerly, and Kurt very nearly spits mocha all over the table.

"_That was from you?_" Kurt exclaims, eyes wide, and Blaine can't help but laugh.

They sit there until their drinks are empty and longer, talking and laughing. Getting used to one another again, to being in the same room. To being friends. A couple of times, one of them says or does something that makes Kurt tense, and shake his head, and say _can we talk about something else? _– but those moments grow fewer and fewer as the conversation goes on. It isn't taking Blaine long to figure out what kind of topics are _fine_, while others are _sometimes_, and fewer are _not right now. _Some things still surprise him, but he's trying his best to figure it out.

They sit there until long after the staff begin cleaning up – fairly early, since they're a small and privately-owned store – and the Mercedes girl even lets them stay a little past closing. Their hands stay clasped the whole time, sitting on the table. Every time Kurt laughs, he gives Blaine's hand a little squeeze; the unintentional openness of the affection makes happy sparks fly in Blaine's stomach. They sit until they finally get kicked out, and hug goodbye at the door.

And Blaine couldn't be happier. Because his friend – his _best _friend – is letting him in again. Is letting him help, and be there, and hold his hand while they talk.

There are scars that both of them are going to take from all this, that aren't going anywhere any time soon. He doesn't think he'll ever really, fully understand what Kurt's going through. Can never possibly comprehend it all. But Kurt is going to let Blaine be part of the mending, and that... that means more than Blaine could ever convey with words, or songs, or the touch of a hand.

They wave at one another as they walk to their separate cars, Blaine can feel the excited hum of _next time _underneath his skin.

* * *

><p><em>Sometimes, he thinks about going back. About finding the boy with bright blue eyes and taking him away, caging him up and keeping him in the way that haunts his dreams.<em>

_Other times, he sits along the edge of the grungy tub in his awful apartment, holding the razor over his arm and wishing beyond belief that he could just _do _it. _End _it. Make it all go away, knowing that there's no one in the world who could find him and pull him away from the brink. To not have to suffer through every day as nothing, as no one of consequence. _

_He never quite manages to do either. _

* * *

><p>It doesn't take long before Blaine slides fully back into Kurt's life again. He meets Kurt's family, gets along with all of them right away. The only exception is a brief period which Finn spends eyeing him up and trying to look threatening before Kurt has to practically hit his brother over the head with something heavy. Kurt gets to meet Blaine's parents, too, although both of them don't tend to be in town on the same day for great lengths of time. They're <em>busy people<em>, the Andersons, seeming to always have things to do and deals to close and charity lunches to organize.

Correspondence school is slightly frustrating, but the material is far below the level Kurt was expected to achieve at Dalton. He works in his own free time to read chapters and fill in worksheets, dragging essay files into online dropboxes. Kurt doesn't know what he wants to do in September for senior year just yet, but he's keeping his options open.

Even when summer rolls in like a wave of warmth and free time for Blaine, Kurt notices that is friend just spends even more time at the Hudson-Hummel house. Watching movies with them, or chopping vegetables as Kurt makes dinner, or even making good-spirited attempts to help out at the garage. He's almost always around; a hand on Kurt's arm, or his toes running up Kurt's bare calf as they watch an episode of something together in Kurt's bed with the door open, or knees knocking into one another under the dinner table.

Eventually, Kurt works up the courage to ask Mercedes-the-barista to go shopping with him for new summer clothes. They start meeting semi-regularly, for lunches and shopping but never coffee, sometimes with Blaine and sometimes without him. There aren't any friends from his old high school to get back into contact with, but Kurt makes an effort with some of the Warblers. Contacts Jeff again, and Nick, and Wes and David, each of them prepped by Blaine with the safe-for-public-consumption version of his story. As if they haven't guessed from the vague stories splashed across the news without names attached, with Kurt dropping out and Karofsky missing and Blaine with his face smashed in right after.

It's nice, having friends again. Nice, and new, and so different without the underlying fear that used to lie just below the surface with every one of his friendships in the past.

But Blaine is always there more than anyone, larger in his mind. Dark and beautiful and so, so careful. Unreal and incredible in all the right ways. He still looks at Kurt the way he used to, months ago. As though he's the most important person in the world.

He knows all of Kurt for who he is, and still looks at him in that exact same way.

* * *

><p><em>Alcohol and self-hate rot the man from the inside out, and he disappears into the city of grime and dirt and litter, melding along the edges and fusing with it to become one. He doesn't need an identity because there's no one to share it with. Doesn't need anyone else because there's nothing left of him to share. <em>

_He self-destructs. Not quickly, in a blaze of fire and fury, but slowly. Over years and days, slipping away from anything he used to be. Nothing left inside a shell of a human being, everything that made him a person completely stripped away by his own hand._

* * *

><p>They're lying together on Kurt's bed, the two of them, on a summer day that's unseasonably sweltering even for August. Fully clothed except for their shoes, neatly lined up at the bottom of the bed. Door open to catch the breeze, they are a tangle of overlapping limbs and slightly sweat-sheened skin from the heat. There's music playing on the radio; melancholy and drifting instrumentals, and a beautifully sad voice that lilts and sways along the notes.<p>

One of Blaine's legs is thrown idly over Kurt's calf, and his head rests on Kurt's shoulder. Every few minutes, Kurt's hand reaches up to stroke through his loose curls. Blaine's hand drifts along Kurt's upper arm to the baseline of the music, steady and consistent, as it hums in the air. A day like any other, in the summer. Lazy and drawn-out, slowed with heat and time and one another. Neither of them have spoken for over thirty minutes.

"Do you ever wonder where he is?" Kurt asks eventually, breaking the silence. The question hangs in the air above them, drifting idly. He doesn't have to specify who he's referring to, even though Kurt has never asked this particular question before. For a long moment, Blaine thinks.

"No," he lies at last, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. "I don't. Do you?"

"No," Kurt lies right back, voice soft and high in the air. The slender boy pushes himself half up onto one elbow. Their eyes meet. Silently, they acknowledge the untruth – and accept it. It's a good lie, and one they're both happy to pretend to believe. Because there's no point in being anything other than what they are, and worrying about a day that might never come is best left to dark corners of the night. Blaine stares up at him, and Kurt stares back. For longer than should be comfortable, they hold one another's gaze.

And ever-so-slowly, moving so carefully it aches, Kurt leans down and presses their lips together. It's a soft kiss, short-lived and sweet, barely more than a brush of lips. Blaine's eyes flutter closed despite the brevity of it, kissing back as gently as he knows how. Their first kiss was hard and fast, all misunderstandings and need and confusion. This, their second kiss, is none of those things. It is certainty, and care, and understanding, and a bone-deep knowledge and awareness of one another that's been growing between them for months.

When Kurt pulls away, he whispers three words against Blaine's lips. Blaine smiles, reaches up to run a hand down Kurt's cheek, and says them back.

It isn't the solution to anything. But it is a beginning.

They spend the rest of the day curled up into one other, letting the music drift around them in the air of the room, and prepare to face the future side by side.

**The End**


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